


The Wild

by Debate



Series: Our Love is a Forest [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Making Out, Missing Scene, Partners in Crime, Post-Episode: s03e02 Wanheda Part 2, but memori domestic so there's theft and discussions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-06-20 04:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15525729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: When Emori points up at the sky, it’s with a pointer finger twice the width of his own. He locks away the knowledge that she trusts him deep inside his chest.[Post Wanheda 2, detailing Murphy and Emori's early season 3 adventures as they grow to mean the world to each other.]





	1. Drifting

Jaha and Otan become smaller and smaller as the boat chugs further away. But Murphy can still make them out, and watches them, feeling vaguely triumphant, until the boat follows a bend in the shoreline and they finally disappear. He looks up at Emori, who is manning the controls with a white-knuckle grip and her eyes set straight ahead. At first he thinks her hair is moving in the wind, but it’s a still day, and he realizes she’s shaking from the tension that’s laced up and down her spine. 

He climbs up to stand next to her, reconciling the fact that while he’s finally free of Jaha, her brother is stuck with him. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, leaning forward to try and look into her eyes, wondering if he should reach out to comfort her. Physical comfort is apparently on the table for them now. But he can’t quite believe that she’d want him to touch her. 

“What the hell just happened?” she says, voice cracking the same way it did when Otan had pressed the knife to her throat. And hell if he knows, really. It’s been one whirlwind of an afternoon. 

“Hey,” he says, brushing her shoulder with his knuckles against his own judgement. “The backpack’s probably destroyed now. The chip will wear off, and Otan will come catch up with us.” 

She shuts off the boat without even having to look at the controls, leaving them stalled in the middle of the water. For a minute he thinks she might blame everything on him, push him overboard. He wouldn’t deserve it, but she’s clearly upset, and he knows from experience that people make lousy decisions when they’re upset. Instead she turns to face him fully, meeting his gaze for the first time.

“Don’t lie to me, John,” she says harshly. Murphy licks his lips and nods, he knew he couldn’t pull off optimism. “What happened to my brother?” 

Experience has told him that honesty is rarely the best policy, or rather, that honesty doesn’t really matter when people choose what they want to believe, but he decides to tell her the truth anyway. He does his best to explain what ALIE really is, repeats the rhetoric Jaha gave him about the chip and the City of Light. When he gets to the ‘no pain, no hate, no envy’ bullshit Emori’s brow clenches and her lips purse, and he realizes she’s trying not to cry. 

“Oh well then I guess that makes sense,” she says, nods angrily, not at him, but out to the lake, the world. “He hates almost everything. Hates his face, hates the clans, hates the world...Guess he hates me too.”

“Hey,” Murphy protests, tugs on her sleeve so that she’ll look at him again. “He’s your brother, he doesn’t hate you.” He doesn’t know a lot about siblings, but he spent enough time with Bellamy Blake to know that big brothers love their sisters, even when they’re not together. 

“But he took that damn chip, he tore himself away from me.” She rubs her neck. “Otan would never…” 

“He probably didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Jaha’s scum, but he’s a good salesman.” 

He doesn’t really think that will calm her down any, but it seems to, or at least the tension rushes out from her body leaving her looking much softer and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her. She leans heavily against the boat’s railing, and suddenly he remembers that she spent the entire previous evening steering the boat. That, on top of today’s murder and betrayal, must have totally wore her out. 

It’ll probably be another couple hours till the sun sets, but he doesn’t think that will really affect Emori’s ability to fall asleep when she’s clearly exhausted. 

“Hey, we can leave the boat here for now, right?” he checks, already moving towards the ladder and lower deck, indicating that she should follow with a nod of his head. “You should get some sleep,” he tells her, nudging some of the packs to see if any of them would make a decent pillow, but finds that most of them are stuffed with hard and pointy tech, totally unsuitable for comfort. 

He lays out his jacket, figures it’s better than sleeping on splinters, and that he can lean against the boat’s short wall and fall asleep comfortably enough. Emori does follow him down, which means that the boat is safe enough where they are, but she eyes his little setup with hesitant confusion. 

“You should really get some sleep,” he repeats, then, thinking of something someone told him a long time ago—a doctor, maybe, or his father, “You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

He picks a spot that ensures the sun won’t shine directly in his eyes and sits down, the wall that acts as a railing just tall enough to ensure that his head doesn’t hang awkwardly over the side. Emori watches him, then slowly makes her way over to his jacket and settles down, curling into herself tightly so that she is only laying directly on the boat from the knee down. It would almost be cute if the look on her face wasn’t still so distraught. 

He figures she’ll close her eyes immediately—she’s a nomad, she can probably sleep anywhere—but instead she looks over to him, evidently staring at the soles of his shoes. 

“When we were young,” she starts, “But not so young that we didn’t yet know you can’t trust anyone, there was this con Otan and I used to pull. We’d meet a group of outsiders, sometimes like us, sometimes not, and Otan would make friends with whoever was in charge.” She pauses and rubs at the corner of her eye. “We’d stage a fight, make it seem like we didn’t care about one another so that when he abandoned me for the leader they’d think he had no other attachments and was truly loyal. I knew he’d never do that though, even when he yelled at me, or fought with me, or betrayed me, we were always on the same team.” 

He waits for her to say more, and it’s a long moment before he realizes that, for her, that’s it, That’s the bottom line. Part of him wants to tell her that she’ll have that again, but he already promised not to lie to her. 

She looks up at him, as if she expects him to say something, but he’s shit at comforting people, and is seriously at a risk of ruining whatever is between them by his inability to be genuine, so he keeps his mouth shut. Emori recognizes that he has nothing to say and closes her eyes. He spends a bit of time trying to figure out what they’re going to do tomorrow, but he really has no clue, and decides they’ll just discuss it in the morning. 

He shifts a bit, tries to get more comfortable and glances over at Emori, who he’s pretty sure is now sleeping. Her face is calm in sleep. He hopes she doesn’t have any nightmares. 

“Sleep well,” he says, before he recognizes what a stupid thing it is to say. The sun is low and the sky is grey when he closes his eyes.


	2. Discovering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that there is a brief mention of suicide in this chapter that's also framed in Murphy's rather negative view of suicide.

The next morning he awakes to the boat humming beneath him. It’s still pretty dark, but more light seems to cross over the horizon with each passing second. He mostly wants to fall back asleep, but he blinks the exhaustion from his eyes and ignores the grumblings of his stomach and the weight against his bladder. 

He stands and stretches his back, which is cramped from the awkward sleeping position, and looks up at Emori, who’s already awake. 

“Morning,” he says and moves to stand beside her. 

“Good morning,” she replies with soft ease ,like it really is a good morning, before thrusting his jacket into his hands. He hadn’t noticed it hanging across her arm. It’s warmer than he remembers it being as he slings it around his shoulders, and he’s grateful; it’s chilly out. 

“Thanks,” he says, fixing the hood so it lays flat, and she hums in acknowledgment as he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“I should’ve thanked you last night,” she adds, looking down at his jacket before meeting his gaze, “I didn’t peg you for a gentleman, though.”

“Oh,” he can’t help but laugh sardonically, “I’m definitely not that.” 

She smiles at him like she’s in on the joke, because that’s what it is, a joke. The smile melts off his face slowly. 

“You okay?” he asks, because he didn’t know what to expect from her today, but this playfulness certainly isn’t it. Her hesitation tells him that at least part of it is an act, and he gets that. Building walls to hide behind is almost always easier than confronting something terrifying. 

“I’ll see Otan again,” she says, so confidently he almost believes her. “But for now we’re probably better off staying away from Jaha and his AI, hm?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, staying away from Jaha sounds like a good time. Sticking around with Emori sounds kind of better. “So where are we going exactly?” 

“To meet one of my other buyers,” she says and smiles. He’s noticing that she smiles easily, and he knows there’s a part of her that’s dark and twisted and angry—he’s seen her murder a man—but it’s hard to believe when she keeps smiling like that. 

Suddenly sunlight reflects harsh off the water and stings his eyes, forcing him to squint. That’s when he happens across his first glimpse of the sunrise. Everything is a deep orange, and the sun manages to look larger than it ever did on the Ark. He exhales, startled by the natural beauty. He’s seen a few Earth sunrises by now, but he’s never taken the time to ever watch one. No one would ever ask his opinion on the matter, but despite everything, he thinks he still prefers Earth to the Ark. 

He looks over at Emori, curious as to her reaction, and spots another of her smiles. This one isn’t teasing, like many of hers seem to be. It’s softer, and closed-lipped. The orange sunlight illuminating her face makes her tattoo look almost blue in contrast, and he’s never understood grounders, but he really can’t fathom how anyone ever looked at Emori and saw her as anything other than beautiful. 

“So who’s this buyer?” he asks with a shake of his head and a quick glance away, he’s not going to be stupid about her.

“A hermit named Cress. He’s a collector, I guess. Not all there, but we can still make a decent deal.” 

“Hope so, I’m getting kinda hungry,” he says, not wanting to linger on how easily she says ‘we’. 

“It will be a few hours yet,” she says, “In the meantime, wanna learn how to drive the boat?”

He shrugs with easy agreement, but is confused about why she’d want to teach him. If he knows how to drive the boat he can steal it. Not that he’s going to, but he can’t figure out what would make her take that risk. Unless she’s deciding to trust him, too. The thought makes his heart crawl further into his chest. 

Driving the boat turns out to not be that hard. There are two levers, one that moves the boat left and right, and another that puts it forward or into reverse. Emori explains that starting it is actually the hardest part, and requires a bit more finagling. 

“But that’ll be lesson two,” she says, and lets him stand at the controls for awhile. It makes him feel powerful to guide something with a thrumming motor, he’d been surrounded by machines on the Ark, but never given the authority or permission to ever handle any of them. He can understand, for a moment, why someone would want to be a captain or a chancellor or a leader of delinquents. There’s a certain rush with that kind of power. He wonders if Emori feels like this, when she directs her own course with something that’s hers, totally above and independent of all those people who have wronged her.

“It’s nice isn’t it?” She says, catching the glance he’d thrown from the corner of his eye. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, blinks heavily when a strong breeze shakes out his hair. He thinks of the boats that used to sail the Earth, five, fifteen, a hundred times this size, and wonders what driving those ships felt like. “Have you ever seen the ocean?” he asks Emori, wondering what her little boat would be like out of sea, wondering how far it could go. Emori nods. 

“It’s sort of like the lake,” she says, “the water goes on forever and ever. Except it’s salty. You can taste it in the air. And the waves don’t lap onto the shore, they crash onto it. It’s terrifying, and sort of beautiful.” 

“Everything on Earth kind of is,” he says. “Even when it sucks and it hurts it’s still better than the same stupid grey walls all the time.” 

“That’s what the sky is like?” Emori asks. “Grey walls?”

He sighs. “Not totally. That’s just the Ark, where we lived. I got arrested when I was twelve and put into the Sky Box, where they kept all the kids until we were old enough to kill. That was a grey hellscape.” He pauses and searches Emori’s expression, which is a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “The sky, space, is black actually. All the time, even during the day, but you can’t go out into it because you’ll suffocate almost instantly.” 

“Like drowning,” Emori says, something sad in her tone. “When I went to the sea it was with Otan and some other frikdreina, there was a practice among them to build rafts to cross the ocean on, in the hopes of finding a more accepting home. At least before anyone first heard of the city of light.” she says, “But some of them just threw themselves to the waves. I haven’t been back since.” 

Murphy swallows, his jaw tightening, then blinks a few times. Drowning yourself seemed like such a stupid way to go. 

“Well I guess that ruins my plan of convincing you to take me to see to the ocean,” he says, but with a sardonic sigh to show that he doesn’t really care. 

“Only if you to take me to space,” she counters, then nudges him aside, taking up the controls herself again. “You know, it’s really important that you keep your eyes up ahead of you, or you’ll lead us off course.”

“I was paying attention,” he mumbles, which is true, just not to the lake. Emori hums and nudges the lever more to the right, and he’s not going to say it, but he had let them wander more towards the middle of the lake when he had been listening to Emori. 

The sun is completely risen now, and as the boat chugs along, the wooded mountains they’d spent yesterday climbing through give way to flatter land. The lake narrows considerably too. 

Emori explains where they are, although knowing which grounder territory they’re invading is more or less meaningless to him. He probably couldn’t even find his way back to Camp Jaha if he tried, although he's smart enough to know that it’s west of here. Emori, at least, has a better sense of direction than Jaha ever did. Maybe she’ll be able to give him a clue about navigating. 

When he ventures to ask about it, she’s eager to respond, telling him about important landmarks and their relation to one another, how heading for running water when he’s lost is his best option, that he can tell directions based on which side of a tree moss grows on. She also offers to tell him about the stars that night, and he nods in agreement. Emori is a good teacher, doesn’t judge him for not knowing stuff that she’d probably learned when she still spoke in two word sentences, and isn’t overbearing like Pike had been. That guy probably would’ve been crushed in an Earth Skills competition with her. 

The boat chugs along, and at this point he doesn’t think it can be considered a lake anymore, but it doesn’t really feel like a river either, the water is too still. It hasn’t rained in awhile. 

“We’ll be there in a bit,” Emori says, catching him a bit by surprise. She had said that it would be a couple of hours before they reached where they’re going, has that much time passed already? It hadn’t felt like it. “Finding a place to hide the boat might be hard, we’ll need a spot with a lot of tree coverage and high grasses.” 

Murphy doesn’t see how that will be too hard, the woods to the left encroach right up to the edge of the river bank, but the problem might be that the water isn’t deep enough, which Emori would be able to tell better than him. 

There’s no docks, of course, and Emori grows more agitated the further along they go, as it only increases the distance they’ll have to double back and cover, but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s not starving yet. 

He’s playing off her concerns when she suddenly pushes the lever all the way to the left, upheaving his balance and sending him reeling into her side. 

“Maybe a little warning?” He says as he straightens, but Emori is already turning off the engine and looking really pleased with herself, paying him no attention. 

“Toss me that rope,” she calls, having already scampered across the deck and leapt onto the bank. He obliges, and Emori is quick to attach the rope to a tree that he isn’t quite convinced is old or large enough to stop the boat from drifting away if a strong current came along. But he has to figure that she knows better them him, so he doesn’t comment as he hands over the tan bag that Emori motions for. 

He steps out onto the shore after her, careful to make sure his footing is even before he takes the short leap. Emori has already shouldered one of the bags, and he picks up the other, trotting a few steps forward to catch up. 

“So what’s in these anyway?” he asks, motioning to the bags. 

“This and that,” Emori shrugs, “whatever we could find. Most of it is shiny though, and that’s all that Cress will care about. You’d think that man was a crow with the eye he has for silver.” 

“Yeah, about this Cress guy,” Murphy says, “What can I expect?” 

“You don’t have to expect anything,” Emori says, “You’ll be waiting outside while I make the deal.” 

He stops in his tracks, the innocent way she had said that pings several responses on his radar. On one hand she could pull the wool over his eyes in so many ways if he’s not in the room with her. On the other there’s nothing calculating in her tone, and he thinks that they’re on the same side now. He almost aches with how much he wants them to be on the same side. 

“I don’t think so,” he says with a shake of his head. Emori has stopped two steps in front of him, her face a mixture of impatience and resignation. “If we’re working together, I have to be involved.” 

Emori licks her lips and huffs. “There’s nothing for me to gain by screwing you over, John,” she says, sounding sincere, but she had sounded like that in the desert too. Nothing has ever made him have to realign himself like Emori has in all of two days. “You need to trust me.”

He hesitates, for only just a moment, but long enough for it to be a tell. “I don’t,” he says, but he feels like he’s lying. 

He must sound like it too, because Emori’s lips press together before she exhales deeply. He’s pretty sure he isn’t supposed to notice this moment of reassurance she gives to herself, but he does, and he’s glad of it. She wouldn’t be trying to convince him she’s trustworthy if she didn’t mean it. Not at this point. Maybe he’s just being a dick.

Or maybe he wants to believe in her so much he’s convinced himself. It’s a nice change, having hope for something. 

“Then I guess this will be a bonding experience,” she says. “He’ll be suspicious enough when Otan isn’t with me and having a sky boy hanging around won’t do anything to ease him.” 

He steps forward so that they’re shoulder to shoulder again, and Emori looks up at him with something resembling surprise. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “I suppose I won’t have a clue what you’re saying anyway.”

Emori nods and quickly takes the lead again, but not so quickly that he doesn’t notice the happy smile that stretches across her face.

Brambles and leaves crunch under their feet for the next few minutes as they carve their own path through the trees. He has to stop himself from asking when they’ll get there every few minutes, knowing that it would only be annoying, but the curiosity is starting to gnaw at him. 

Not as much as the bugs are though. It’s as if every other minute something lands on his arm or neck, finding and latching onto the limited bare skin exposed. 

Emori laughs when she catches sight of him slapping his own hand. 

“What?” he asks, “Are they not eating you alive?”

“It’s your fresh blood,” she laughs, “tasty.”

“I resent that.” 

She’s laughing, and he’s too caught up with how her smile changes the shape of her face that he doesn’t immediately notice when they enter the clearing, although he should have. Cress’s shack is nestled between two trees so thick they must have survived the bombs. His home glitters, colored glass and polished silver reflecting and refracting the sunlight. The ground surrounding the house is a minefield of metal. To his right a pot lid sits atop a plate that reads out Virginia KH8-J89. The frame of a bike leans against one of the old trees, next to the rim of a tire. And, most impressive, is a pinwheel planted into the ground next to the door, probably three feet tall, gently rotating, each of its colorful petals looking fragile enough to crack from a hard glare. It’s a wonder anything like it survived the end of the world. 

“You just have to wait here for me,” Emori reminds him, already picking through the bags and choosing the more desirable items, consolidating them into only one of the packs. 

“Got it,” he says, and Emori’s looking at him so earnestly that he’s not even annoyed at being excluded anymore. Emori nods once and makes her way to Cress’ front door and the transformation she makes, her shoulders setting back and neck stretching high, is impressive to behold. 

He watches her bang against the door, far enough to the left that he will go unseen should the door open all the way. The man who opens the door is old, grey-haired but tall. From this distance Murphy can’t tell what the tattoo on his face is supposed to be, but it’s faded, what was once black is now more blue, like veins under skin. Emori says something garbled to him in grounder language, already opening the bag as he lets her inside. 

It feels like forever that he’s waiting. Long enough for him to relieve himself and kick around some of the shit in the yard. Long enough for him to worry that Emori might not come back out. 

She does though, before he even has to start thinking about marching up to the door and knocking. The collector doesn’t follow her out either, and she makes her way to him with a spring in her step, tossing him a brown crust of bread that already has a bite taken out of it. 

He has no shame in how quickly he devours the rest of it. Bread on the ground is so different than bread on the Ark, which had always seemed stale and fake, even when he’d never had anything else. On the ground, bread is soft in the middle, and if you eat it quick enough, none of it will crumble. 

“So it went well?” he asks and Emori nods, proud little smirk on her face as she pushes forwards, back into the trees. Getting back to the boat turns out to be quicker than leaving it. And before they board she shows him what she traded, explaining the deal. 

It’s not really all that much, another loaf and a half of bread, some fruit he isn’t familiar with, and some grain Emori tells him they can mix with water for a meal. 

“Real generous guy,” he remarks as Emori packs everything away. 

“It’s as much as he can give,” Emori says, and he wonders why she’s making honest and upfront business deals now. “He’s a consistent resource, if I steal from him we can’t come back, and the risks don’t outweigh the benefits in this case,” she explains when he asks. “Plus he’s too blind to notice this.” She waves her gloved hand briefly.

So she’s a pragmatist. For a moment that’s comforting, if they run into any problems they’ll see things the same way, but it could also mean that she’ll dump him the minute he isn’t useful. 

“C’mere,” she says, “I’ll give you your second lesson.”

But he supposes he isn’t being very useful now, and she hasn’t kicked him out yet. He turns his attention to her demonstration and watches as she starts the boat’s motor, which does happen to involve quite a lot of finagling, and one or two frustrated kicks. 

“It’s easier with two people, so you’re helping next time. Can you put the boat forward, slowly?” she specifies. Soon enough they’re back to the middle of the river, and it’s straight enough at this point that she leaves the controls in place to guide them along. 

“We won’t be able to stay on the boat much longer,” Emori says, “our supplies won’t last that long, and the weather’s sure to turn soon, we’ll need shelter.”

“So what are we doing? You traded off most of the tech.”

Emori pauses, contemplating. He realizes that he's putting a lot of his own agency into her hands, but she knows better than him in this case, and he wants to stay fed. The lack of control doesn't bother him as much as it probably would have four months ago. 

“The only other person who’s ever typically reliable for a good deal is Niylah, but her trading post is much further inland, close to the Trikru border with Azgeda, so it wouldn’t be smart to go there.” 

“Fine by me,” he says, “I’m not a big Trikru fan.” He can’t help but run the pad of his finger over his thumb where the nail is still stunted in its growth. Emori tilts her head in the way she does when she’s thinking. He likes when she does that, it makes her look like she’s listening to him. 

“So, you wouldn’t mind stealing from them?” She asks, like she still might have doubts about where his morals lie. 

“No,” he says with a little chuckle, incredulous, “I don't think I'd mind.”

She doesn’t smile, exactly, but for a moment she seems more at ease before the gears start turning in her head. 

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll let you in on a few of my tricks, but tomorrow we’ll need to find somewhere to stay.”

“A few of your tricks?” he repeats, a spark of what he can only call excitement flaring inside him. 

“Not all of them,” she teases, “I have to keep you on your toes.”

“On my toes? I’m not the dancing type.” 

“I bet I could make you be,” she says, with a little lift of her chin, like she totally believes she’s outsmarted him, and maybe she has, because all he’s doing is smiling, a witty retort stuck in some dark corner of his brain. 

“We’ll see,” he eventually says, watching as Emori brushes some of her errant hair over one shoulder. He’s never seen anyone with hair as long as hers, it’s no wonder she needs it to be held back by her bandana, but he kind of wants to see it spilled out everywhere, knots and tangles be damned. 

“I don't make wagers I won't win, John,” she says, and he has no doubt that she can manage odds better than him, but he's pretty sure this isn't really a competition. 

“Yeah, well, I'm a habitual loser, so it looks like we’ll be a good match.” 

Emori laughs and licks her lips. 

“I think so too,” she says unironically, glancing up to meet his eyes, her lips pressed into a little bowstring smile. He kind of wants to kiss her. Really wants to. He smiles to match her instead, swallowing something thick that sits in his throat. 

Of course then she has to make it worse. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and it’s not as if she looks away from him, or starts twiddling her thumbs, but there’s something about that admission that makes her look vulnerable. 

“Sure,” he says, a little stunted. He coughs. “Me too.” 

“John, after the Dead Zone,” she starts, but he shakes his head. 

“No, I get it,” he interrupts, “you did what you had to do to survive. Don’t apologize for it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she says quickly, “let me finish.” He leans back a little against the railing and bobs his head. “I’m not sorry for what I did to you and your friends,” she says, and while part of him wants her to regret it, he respects her more knowing that she doesn’t. “But I did wish I had gotten to talk to you longer.”

“So what you’re trying to say is that it wasn’t all part of a con?” That’s not surprising, really. Emori, seems pretty sincere, withholding parts of the truth instead of outright lying. Regardless, it’s nice to hear. Most people can’t stand talking to him. 

“Yes,” she says, “I had hoped you would survive.” 

He remembers her voice in his ear. She had been genuine when she wished him good luck. 

“I’m good at it,” he says, less casual than he would normally be. 

“Me too,” she says, like she gets it. Like she understands the white hot fire that burns in his gut and under his fingertips when danger is near; the one that makes him feel alive. Or the itch at the back of his neck that makes him think faster, better, that prods him forwards. 

The thought of experiencing that with her has his blood thrumming. 

“Really?” He questions, mostly sarcastic but with a thread of genuine curiosity. 

“I've lived in a desert most my life,” she says with a playful eyebrow raise, and she makes a valid point. 

“Why the Dead Zone though?” He asks, “the place seems marketed to keep people out.”

“It wasn't the only place I lived,” she says, and that's clear from how well she knows these woods. “But it was the one that felt...not like home, but a place where I wasn't unwanted. Probably because there weren't enough people to kick me out.” She shrugs. “And once rumors about the city of light started to come around it was easy to live there because of all the unsuspecting travelers.”

“You're welcome.”

“There were nice parts about it too,” she says with another little eyebrow raise, but otherwise ignoring his comment. 

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really,” she says. “Like the moon, sometimes it got so big it looked like it might crash into the Earth, and it was almost bright enough to be day time, but without the heat. Or when we caught vultures to eat. They taste like chickens, but they're bigger.” 

“I can't say that really sounds very nice.”

“Better than total darkness and starving.”

“Yeah,” he has to agree, thinking of the bunker, although the claustrophobia had really been the worst of it. “I guess you get to go wherever you want to.” 

“Almost everywhere,” she agrees, “I have to avoid settlements though.” 

“You're better off,” Murphy says easily, maybe to make her feel better. “All towns are is a bunch of rules and people telling you what to do.” 

“Oh, I know,” Emori says, “they're all so preoccupied with their fields and their wars and their borders, none of them really get to see the Earth.” 

Emori exhales heavily, and Murphy wonders if she truly believes that, or if it's the consolation prize she's given herself. 

“I mean, look,” she says, turning over to look behind them. He follows her gaze out over the river behind them, the dark water churning under the boat. The trees that press in on them at two sides and far out in the distance don't look quite green anymore, not with the sun setting. Twilight is a collection of purples, like bruises littering the sky. “Do you think it's beautiful?” 

“I guess,” he says, unsure, like the night sky is a piece of art that he doesn't understand. He had liked the sunrise more, it hadn't felt like a throbbing wound. 

Emori makes a face like she has a toothache. “We should stop for the night,” she says after a moment, “before it gets too dark.” 

She powers off the boat and goes down to the lower deck to drop two anchors (that they probably should've used the previous night, he realizes) and to settle down. Without the movement, the boat seems much smaller, especially with the tall trees of the forest all around. 

“Maybe we should dock?” He says coming down onto the main deck with her. “We're a bit out in the open here.” 

“Yes,” she agrees, “but we only have to worry about people, and they don't hunt at night. Besides,” she adds, “if I'm going to teach you about navigating at night this will be the only place we’ll see stars.” 

She's right, of course. Above the river is the only strip of visible sky, still only dark blue, not quite black. 

He sighs. “It'll be awhile till we can really see anything.” 

“You’re right,” she says, and sits down. The light is fading fast now, and her eyes are the only thing he can really distinguish in her silhouette, still shining in the dark. He sits as well, leaning against the boat’s wall like he did the previous evening. Emori makes a beckoning motion, but he can’t quite tell what she means by it. 

“You have to sit next to me, if you want know what I’m talking about,” she says, with the same tilt of her head. She’s right, so he moves to sit next to her with a heavy sigh. Trying to ignore the brush of her shoulder against his. 

That touch is brief because she lies down in the next moment, her hands resting on her stomach as she looks up, exposed over gloved. 

He thinks about telling her that it’s just him, of reminding her that he wouldn’t mind her being herself around him, but that seems pressing and insensitive, something he normally has no issues with, but that he doesn’t want to inflict on Emori. Not when she’s feeding him and the only sane person in the world who wants him around. 

But maybe she can read his thoughts, because her eyes flick to him, and she’s very still, like a panther in tall grass, and it’s frightening and kind of amazing that she manages to look so fierce lying down and looking up at him. 

“What?” he says, lying down beside her so that they’re shoulder-to-shoulder again.

“Nothing,” she lies, and he feels her eyes on him, and he kinda wants to turn his head and meet her gaze, but he knows that they’ll be too close then, so he keeps looking up at the blacker—but still starless—sky. Emori shifts her shoulders, not away from him, but like she’s trying to shake off someone’s glare on her back. 

“John?” she says after a moment, like she just needed a moment to center herself and gather her courage. She doesn’t wait for a response. “Are you planning on leaving?”

“Where else am I going to go?” he says, flippant, but hating the truth in the words. For a moment he thinks that she might bring up Jaha, or ‘his people’ as everyone back at camp was so fond of saying, but she doesn’t. 

“You don’t need me,” she says, sure of herself, but she doesn’t know that he’s been alone for the past three months, longer really. 

“Neither do you,” he says. After all, he’s the one playing guest star to her life. Maybe naively, he expects Emori’s teasing humor as a response, but he’s met with potent silence. He thinks that they both recognize that both their statements are false. He licks his lips. “Well we’ve already established that I’m a shit navigator, so actually I think I’d be lost without you.”

The sound she makes is the cousin of a chuckle, an exhale both light and full-bodied. Then she starts to move slowly, taking off her glove like it’s a bandage and she wants to revel in the pain. Murphy still doesn’t dare look, instead watching the stars start to emerge above them, faint like the blue dots under your eyelids that appear when you look at light for too long, and then disappear again when you try to focus on them. 

When Emori points up at the sky, it’s with a pointer finger twice the width of his own. He locks away the knowledge that she trusts him deep inside his chest. 

“That bright one there points north,” she says, her voice the only sharp thing in the night, as she points out the tip of the ladle. Before the world ended people called it Polaris, but up on the Ark they called it the Lost Star, a sort of ironic name following the fall of the thirteenth station and the fact that finding true north wasn’t necessary when you’re stuck in orbit. 

“Yeah, I know that much.” 

“I should hope so,” she says, and he can hear her smile in her voice. His eyes follow her hand as she points to other stars, telling him about how he can tell how far he’s traveled based on the distance they move in the sky in relation to a designated landmark. He likes to think he’s paying attention, but it’s admittedly hard when their shoes keeping bumping into one another, and the knuckles of his right hand are brushing against her outer thigh. 

“I don’t think I’m going to remember any of that,” he admits when Emori finishes her lesson, and her hand comes to rest again at her side. It doesn’t quite overlap with his, but it wouldn’t be a hard thing, holding her hand. 

“John,” she implores, kind of exasperated, but like she wasn’t really expecting anything else. 

“Eh, we’ve got one good navigator among us,” he says, watching as that smile he’s growing very quickly to love seeing widen on her face. Until it suddenly pauses, and she turns to him. 

He had been right to not turn and be face-to-face earlier, because now they’re close enough that he could feel her exhale against his lips if she breathed any heavier. When she speaks, he does. 

“So you’re not going anywhere without me,” she says, a statement phrased as a question, and he knows she’s talking about his demonstrated lack of navigational skills, but if he wanted to he could easily interpret it as being more than that. 

“Well, if you were a better teacher…”

“You were the one not paying attention!” 

Teasing her—or flirting with her, really—is easy. So he keeps doing it until his eyes are too heavy from the gentle rocking of the boat and Emori’s warmth pressing against his upper arm, and he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this out before the finale inevitably wrecks me :) The next chapter might take a bit longer for that same reason.


	3. Wading

He awakes confused the next morning, thinking for a moment that he should still be on his cot in the Skybox, before the sun shining in his eyes reminds him where he is. On the ground, in Emori’s boat. 

He glances at Emori to his right. Her back is to him, but she's still laying close enough that his elbow jostles her as he sits up. She stirs immediately at the contact and rolls to face him, opening one eye and then the other; squinting, like he is. It's too damn bright. 

“What time is it?” She asks, and he wishes he could sound as clear as she does. His throat is parched and his neck aches. 

“Hell if I know,” he says, like he's back in the desert swallowing sand. 

“We slept late,” she says, while standing up and looking at her short shadow. 

“Sorry if I woke you,” he says, rolling his neck to try and work out the kinks. 

“It's fine,” she says, “I haven't slept that well in a while.” And despite the small discomforts, he has to agree. “Besides, we should get moving,” she adds, and starts hauling up one of the anchors. 

He does the same on the other side, even if he’d rather stretch some more. 

“You hungry?” she asks, crouching to shift through their small pack of food. All he had yesterday was that piece of bread, so he’s a bit enthusiastic when he answers in the affirmative. 

“Well, then clean out that pail and fill it with water,” she says with a point, and he does as directed, leaning over the side of the boat a bit precariously to get the water. 

“What am I, your water boy?” he says, setting down the bucket next to her. 

“As long as I can make you be, yes,” she says with a grin to match his. He feels weirdly light, like his chest is hollow, and that might just be because he’s still waking up, or because he got a headrush leaning over the side of the boat, but he feels dumb in a way that would normally really bother him, but doesn’t because it makes Emori smile at him. 

She doles out some grain into two dishes that pass as bowls and mixes in some water until the grain absorbs all of it. She throws in the berries, now mostly squished or misshapen, and hands him a bowl. She’s wearing her glove again, but he doesn’t mention it. 

Murphy’s never been a particularly picky eater, you can’t be on the Ark when you get the same thing for dinner nine times out of ten, but whatever glomp they’re eating has the consistency of mud and taste of tree bark, and it takes a lot of effort not to pull a face as he swallows it down. 

“It’s better when it’s heated,” Emori admits, noticing his grimacing despite his best efforts, “but I’d rather eat now than wait to build a fire.” 

“You don’t hear me complaining,” he says, even though all he really wants to do is complain. 

“We can try fishing later,” she says, a sort of consolation. “Get some meat.” 

“Sure,” he agrees, eating the last of what he’s going to call cold porridge, and washing it down with some leftover water from the pail.

“We're gonna go down a little farther, to where there's more hills and caves.” 

He nods and stands to help her with the motor, and soon enough they're moving once more. 

“So are we just gonna leave the boat?” He asks, trying to think ahead even if he considers himself an in-the-moment type of guy. Leaving the boat is more or less asking for it to be stolen or destroyed, but Emori has already said that they can't feasibly stay on it for much longer. And he can't think of a place where they could hide her large boat. 

“I know a place,” Emori says. “There are a lot of cave systems where we’re going, and there are a few that are accessible by the river. We can leave the boat in one of them. Otan and I have done it before.” 

Her voice turns flat at the mention of her brother, but he doesn't linger on that, instead asking about the caves. 

“I don't really know the word,” she continues, “but they're caves with water that the boat will fit in. It's pretty, actually. You'll see.” 

He has a vague understanding of what she means, so he doesn't press further. He doesn't know why he cares so much about the boat anyway. It's not like it's his and it's not like they're going back to Becca’s island. But Emori has an affection for it, and he supposes that makes it something worth protecting. 

The river widens, quite suddenly, in an area filled with lily pads and reeds, before narrowing again as the bank to their left begins to slant upward and become a cliff. He notices that Emori’s focus sharpens considerably, and her grip on the the steering lever becomes tight and careful. He shuts up and let's her concentrate. 

This seems like a place where the water should be more rapid, but the lack of rain has seemingly calmed it. It’s also probably made it shallower, which explains Emori’s need for concentration. They don’t want to run aground.

“See over there?” Emori says suddenly with a point, directing his attention to a hollowed out space in the cliffside, just to their left. “We’re looking for something like that, but bigger.” 

So they’re looking for a sort of lagoon. The water must get really strong at times if it’s able to carve out pockets of the land like that. 

“Will we be able to get back if the water gets deeper?” He asks skeptically, even while keeping his eyes peeled for a cave large enough to fit the boat. 

“The current isn’t dangerous in these parts,” she says, not sharing his concern, “even when there’s lots of rain.” 

“Yeah, but I can’t swim,” he tells her, trying not to let embarrassment sneak into his voice. There’s another thing that she’s known how to do forever that he’s useless at. 

Emori looks confused for a moment, like she honestly doesn’t understand how that is possible, before she nods slowly. 

“Right, no rivers in space,” she says with easy understanding which does a lot to make him more comfortable. “Well, it’s shallow enough in the meantime to walk through, and I could teach you. It’s not hard.”

“You’re gonna get sick of teaching me things,” he answers, growing tired of his reliance on her, even if he still plans to take her up on the offer. 

“Not if it’s something that could save your life,” she says, shifting her gaze to him for a moment so that he knows she means it. “Drowning is a stupid way to go.”

“Yeah, sounds horrible,” he agrees, his face twisting at the thought of not only suffocating but also having fluid fill his lungs as he thrashes upward uselessly. Kind of like getting hanged when your neck doesn’t snap. He shakes away the thought and hopes Emori didn’t notice the way he had been rubbing his neck.

“What about up there?” he says after a couple of minutes, spotting another dug out hole in the cliffside. Emori squints and nods, a little smile emerging on her face. 

“Hold on,” she warns, turning the boat to the left with a harsh push. At least this time he doesn’t go reeling into her, catching himself on the railing at the last second. 

Emori is very careful as she maneuvers the boat through the opening. It’s a tight fit and he waits to hear the screech of the top of the boat dragging against the rock ceiling, but thankfully it never comes. 

It’s much darker in the cave, but luckily there’s still enough light filtered through the opening to see by. And Murphy has to admit that Emori was right about it being pretty. It’s much wider than he would have guessed looking at it from the outside, and under the water is clear. The sound it makes as it laps against the rock walls is gentle, and sort of fresh. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Emori says as she turns off the motor. He follows her down to the lower deck where they drop the anchors. The walls of the cave aren’t totally flat, to their right there’s a sort of small ledge that’s more or less level with the boat that they’ll be able to stand on for a while, but other than the opening they came through there don’t seem to be any exits. 

Emori is occupied with tying the boat to a rock pillar that rises out of the water, a stal-someting, while Murphy moves their few remaining belongings out of the boat before dismounting himself, mindful of the gap between the rock and the ledge. Emori follows with an easy grace that must only come after months of living on the boat. 

“So how do we get out of here?” he asks as Emori crouches down next to him. There’s enough space to move around in, but not without being cramped.

“We’ll wade through the water till we reach the bank on the opposite shore.” Murphy nods, really hoping she’s right about the water being shallow enough to walk through, when Emori starts unlacing her shoes. 

“Woah, what are you doing?” 

“The water’s cold, you’ll want warm, dry clothes when you get out,” she says, and proceeds to tug off her boots. He reaches down, but flinches after sticking only his fingers in the water.

“Fuck, it's freezing!” 

Emori raises her eyebrows, and he’s forced to follow her lead, taking off first his shoes and then the rest of his clothes, leaving him uncomfortably cold and exposed. He bundles his shirt, pants, and boots in his jacket and stuffs it into one of the packs. and turns to look over at Emori, figuring they're on even enough footing that modesty doesn't really matter. She's done the same as him, although she has more clothes, and is now struggling to stack her long hair atop her head with her head band. Eventually she tugs off her glove in frustration, able with her two hands to haphazardly pile her hair on top her head. It falls precariously to the left as she slips her glove back on. 

“Want me to tie your hair back?” He asks, which seems to startle her. For a moment he thinks she might be offended, her lips are pressed together with a twisted pinch, but after a moment she nods and turns her back to him. 

He sets down his clothes and walks towards her, doing his best not to crowd her as he takes her hair in hand. It's coarse and thick, and he needs to use two hands to manage it. Doing it up in a braid would probably take ages and her hair would likely still drag in the water in that fashion, so he gathers it at her nape and twists it into a bun near the top of her head, securing it with her bandana. It's not neat or fashionable, but when Emori gives her head a slight shake it doesn't fall, so that doesn't matter much. Not that Emori would care anyway. 

Emori turns and gives him a thankful smile, one that makes his chest feel full. 

She takes the lead, shouldering her bundle, and drops into the lagoon. Her pace is fast, and she's already waist deep by the time Murphy enters the water. 

“You need to move fast, or you'll get numb and it'll be harder to move,” she says. Murphy doesn't say anything in return, but he wasn't planning on going slow; the quicker he moves the quicker he gets out of the water. He makes up the distance to be even with Emori in a heartbeat. 

The water comes up to about his mid chest, and he has a few inches on Emori so it nearly reaches her shoulders, but she was right about the water being still enough to walk through, even if mud squelches unevenly under his toes, threatening to make him slip with every step. 

Being surrounded by water is weird. They got four minute showers once a week on the Ark and it was nothing like this. It’s like a brutally cold embrace, except he hasn’t been hugged in so long he isn’t quite sure. 

He pushes forward, keeping pace with Emori even as his jaw shakes, and they reach the opposite shore quickly. Pulling himself up takes more effort than it should, but with his entire body feeling numb, it makes sense. 

Getting dry is difficult. He shakes off what water he can, makes sure to keep moving so he doesn't start shivering. He hesitates for a second before stripping off his soaked underwear and replacing them with his pants, deciding he doesn't really care if Emori sees him naked for a second. He wrings out the near hundred year old garment and uses his jacket to wipe down his arms and chest before tugging on his shirt. Emori had been right, he's grateful for the dry clothes even if he doesn't really feel any warmer yet. 

“Yeah you’re not teaching me to swim if the water’s that cold,” he says. The chill sits under his skin and he doesn’t waste any time before beginning to gather kindling. 

“Have to wait for summer then,” she replies and he's been careful not to look at her since they got out of the water, but he can’t help but smile at the idea that they’ll still be together by the time summer rolls around, and he wants to know if she shares it. Her chin is tucked to her chest, and she's taken out the bandana to dry her arms and legs, leaving her long hair to spill over her bare shoulders. A smile does grace her features, and he decides to focus on that instead of the long scar on her abdomen or how fit her legs are. 

He dumps the kindling in a pile and begins to stack it, trying to focus on how the fuck you're supposed to start a fire. 

Emori sits next to him, rearranging his sad pile of sticks. Her hair is still down although it's now tucked around one shoulder. She rummages through one of the packs and produces two flint stones, and begins striking them together. He’s happy to watch, his Earth Skills having always been lackluster. 

Soon enough some of the dry leaves catch and Emori blows into them, nudging the sticks to try and make them light. They both crowd around the fire, eager to warm their hands. 

“So we’re going to try fishing?” 

“This isn’t the best place,” Emori admits, “but all the good spots will be taken by people who live in these parts, so I guess it will do.” 

She lays out their wet clothes by the fire, but not near enough to catch, and begins to search through the brambles. 

“Start digging for worms!” She calls, and he doesn’t want to move away from the warmth just yet, but he’s not going to oppose Emori, so he finds a patch of damp soil and begins to sift through it. 

He’s not sure if there’s an ideal fishing worm or something, so he just makes a pile of all the ones he finds, keeping an eye on it so that none of them squirm away. It’s sort of gross, but he’s bled from his eyes before, so he’s probably immune. Or at least he thinks so until he feels something slimy and wriggling on the back of his neck and his entire body flinches, throwing the worm off and turning him to face Emori in one motion. 

She’s sniggering into her hand, two long straight sticks in her grasp. And he doesn’t know how she manages to walk so silently through the brambles of the forest, but he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to emulate it, so he retaliates immediately, flinging one of the worms at her face. 

For some reason she wasn’t expecting that, because she takes two stumbling steps back and shakes her head like it will make the feeling of the worm on her skin go away. 

“Okay, truce,” she says, holding her hands up and everything. 

“Yeah, you say that now when I have the pile of worms.” 

Emori smiles, not looking all that sorry, and begins to dig through their pack of dwindling supplies, eventually emerging with two thin pieces of metal. She pulls the drawstrings from both of the bags as well and ties them securely to the sticks, making two impromptu fishing rods. 

“Bend this into a hook,” she says, handing him one of the pieces of metal as she begins to twist the other. The metal isn’t easily malleable, but with enough force they both manage to bend the scraps into something resembling hooks which are then tied to the other end of the drawstring. Murphy has his doubts about how useful the rods will be, what with the opaque string and lack of reel, but he keeps those thoughts to himself, instead imitating Emori and spearing a worm on the hook. 

They sit on the edge of the bank and cast their lures. Murphy quickly comes to the conclusion that this is a pastime for people with far more patience than him. 

“So, how’s the stealing thing going to work?” He asks, looking for a way to occupy the time. 

Emori perks up and is eager to explain it to him. 

It’s brilliant in its simplicity. He’ll play dead and prey on the sympathy or greed of passersby, and when their guard is down Emori will attack. 

“It’s smart,” he remarks, “You’ve done it before?” 

Emori bobs her rod in the water, but neither of them have gotten anything that even resembles a nibble. 

“Otan and I would do it more often when we were younger. Until I got hurt once and we had to stop.” Her voice is like slate, probably both at the mention of her brother, and whatever pain the memory causes her to relive, but curiosity gnaws at him. 

“What happened?” 

Emori is quiet, and for a moment he thinks she won’t tell him, but then exhales deeply and continues. 

“Otan always made me be the bait because most people wouldn’t even stop for him if they saw his face, and once this man found me. We always smeared animal’s blood to make it look realistic, and instead of trying to help me or steal my shoes or anything like that he licked the blood off my neck.” Murphy’s face twists in disgust, and he wishes he hadn’t asked Emori this story, but she’s calm and continues despite noticing his displeasure. “I thought he was a Reaper, maybe he was. I was so scared, but I kept playing dead when all I wanted to do was scream. Maybe he noticed my pulse, or that my skin was still warm, I don’t know, but he figured out I was still alive, and took out a knife to finish the job.” Even with the full and obvious knowledge that she came out on top, Murphy feels his throat clench with the suspense. 

“Well, there was no point in continuing to pretend then. I flailed and screamed and probably got a few lucky hits in, and then I ran as fast as I could, but not before he sliced my arm.” She indicates the spot where a scar is likely hiding under her long sleeves, running her finger horizontally at the point where her arm bends. “I got away, and went back to where Otan and I were staying. He was already there, and by then I had ran all the fear out of my body, and I was just so angry.” Something bitter rises in her voice at the memory, and he knows that he’d hate to ever be on the receiving end of her anger. “I didn’t understand why he didn’t come to help me, so I yelled at him. He had been crying since before I got back, but he was just a mess after that. Claimed that he was too afraid to do anything. We stopped running that con after that, there was no point to it if he couldn’t keep me safe.”

Emori doesn’t have a lot of obvious tells to give away what she’s feeling, especially for feelings that might make her look sensitive, but she looks particularly sour now. And Murphy doesn’t know anything more bitter than betrayal. Maybe, he thinks, the incident with Jaha wasn’t an isolated or singular occurrence. But rather one that’s built upon an existing pattern of betrayal. It would explain Emori’s belief, or desperate hope, that she and Otan will reconcile. It looks like they have before.

“I won’t let that happen to you, though,” she says, and it surprises him a bit, they’d obviously taken two different meanings from her story. “No one will hurt you under my watch.”

His gut instinct is to believe her, until he reminds himself that if someone wants to hurt him that’s out of her control. He likes the sentiment regardless. 

“Thanks,” he finds himself saying, wondering if he should make a similar declaration. But he doesn’t think Emori’s expecting him to, and in his head it sounds like another promise that will result in disaster. “Guess you’re fiercer than your brother.”

“I am,” she says and he curses himself because the goal had been to make her smile, not for her eyes to become hooded, or her face pinched. “That’s why I’m worried about him.”

Again Murphy’s stuck, wanting to reassure her, but knowing that anything he could say is either an empty platitude or a bold-faced lie. He compromises and bumps his knee against hers. He’s here with her. That's something, he thinks. 

She sighs and shifts closer to him, keeping their knees pressed together. He's searching for something to change the subject when he feels a tug on his rod. 

“Hey I think I got something,” he says, and watches Emori perk up by his side. 

“Well pull it up!” She exclaims, and he does with a sharp jerk. 

Call it beginner’s luck, but the fish doesn't pull the hook, and emerges from the water with its tail squirming and fat eye shifting. It's about the length of his hand, and the width of his four fingers when they're pressed together. Not exactly a big catch, but a victory nonetheless. 

It's still flapping when he lays it on the ground between him and Emori, and shouldn't it be dead by now? 

He's about to ask Emori how long it will take for the thing to suffocate when her knife comes down on its head. She pulls the hook from its decapitated head and and throws it's remains back into the river. 

“You’ve had more luck than me,” she says as she starts to flay it with careful precision, “keep fishing and I’ll cook it.”

He strings another worm onto the hook and throws it back into the water. Over his shoulder he watches Emori gut the fish and scrape off its scales. She roasts the fish over the fire and comes back to offer him half right before he feels another tug on the line. 

His second fish is slightly smaller than the first and a freaky iridescent purple. Both he and Emori examine it with wide eyes as it struggles on the line. 

“Can we eat that?” He asks with some skepticism, brightly colored things usually mean poison. Two-headed deer also gave of warning signs, but he’d eaten that before without harm. 

“Only one way to find out,” Emori says, chopping off its head with the same efficiency she had used the first time. 

He follows her to the fire, figuring that his success has probably peaked, fishing-wise. There's not much meat on the first fish, especially when he keeps on having to spit out bones, so he's eager for his half of the second fish and demolishes it when Emori hands it over. 

Their clothes are more or less dry by now so they pack them away and disassemble their rods to lace the drawstrings back into the bags. They leave the sticks and the hooks and all the worms he fruitlessly dug up. Emori stamps out the fire with her heel and they head out into the forest. 

They're looking for shelter, something far enough away from the road that no one else will stumble upon it, but close enough that it won't take ages to get there. Of course Murphy doesn't know where the main road is, but he can spot the mouth of a cave easily enough. 

To get to the caves they have to head towards the more rocky and mountainous area to the northeast. The walk is uphill and gets strenuous quickly so their conversation dries up as they navigate the uneven terrain, but Murphy doesn't feel the static tension that had been brought about by similar silences in the desert. It's that trust again, he thinks. The kind that keeps making him glance over at her for fear of it flying away when he's not paying attention. 

They take a break when the mountain plateaus a bit. Emori has spot two caves, but the first had more resembled a foxhole, dug into the ground and lacking overhead shelter, and the second wouldn't have fit them both.

“You know I didn't think finding a cave would be this difficult,” he says, wiping some sweat off the back of his neck. “Haven't you lived here before?”

“Not here exactly,” she huffs, and, okay, maybe his impatience is making him kind of a dick. That and the exercise. Having 500 square feet to roam around in and a diet consisting of 100 year old crackers doesn't exactly keep one in shape. 

“Guess we keep walking then,” he says without enthusiasm, squinting as he looks further down their path. 

They start up again, passing a canteen between the two of them as the sun retreats behind some clouds. It would be just their luck if it started to rain right before they found somewhere to stay and had already been drenched for part of the day, but thankfully the water stays put in the bellies of the clouds and they blow past. But they take the light with them. It’s early evening now. They won’t have good light for much longer. 

The terrain splits gradually, sloping up on one side, barren of vegetation. They avoid that route and stick to the low road, even when it means Murphy is tripping over tree roots every other step. To their left the slope rises high enough to kill you if you fell off it, but not quite tall enough to be a clifface. It looks like a place a cave could be carved out of. 

They spot the cave a little bit ahead at the same time, share a glance, and move towards it without speaking. It's spacious, although it doesn’t really feel it; the dark brown walls all crowding towards each other. But it’s more than enough room for the two of them and any belongings they may acquire. It's clean for a cave, or barren, rather, housing no unwelcome bears or bats. 

“Home sweet home,” he says, throwing down the pack, glad to be done carrying it. 

He takes a seat, close to the mouth of the cave, spreading his tired legs out before him, and leaning back on the cave wall, uncaring of its rocky, uneven edges. Emori sits beside him with a soft sigh, her eyes alert as she examines the cave. The light that manages to evade the overhang of the cave’s mouth is distorted by the crevices running around the walls, creating dark spots that melt and meld together. He sees a tree, it's branch bent like a broken leg, the tip of it transforming into the knobby fingers of a old woman. In another spot the shadows make the silhouette of a face; one with a little up-turned nose and mouth wide as if it was caught mid-scream. 

Maybe Emori is scanning the space so intently to assure that none of the distorted figures are really there, forcing herself to see the rocks behind them. Or maybe that's just him, his eyes still wired like a scared kid’s. 

He blinks, eyelids heavy. 

“I'll get kindling,” he says, like he's taking a bite out of the silence, sharp, to scare it away. Emori follows him out, breaking larger pieces of wood over her knee. 

The fire in the cave is larger than the one they had built earlier that day, and hot enough that he has to sit back from it. They have nothing to cook now, the fire is just to keep them warm as the temperature drops at night and give them light when the sun sets. The firelight makes the cave’s shadows dance, a tree snapping in the wind, a face contorting in pain. 

It changes the shape of Emori’s face, too. In one moment it looks like her tattoo transforms, swirling to cover her entire face, in the next there are deep wells of darkness beneath her nose and mouth. Her eyes never stop shining though, reflecting the light. 

“This is a good place,” Emori says, her gaze on the fire. She has a wonder in the crackling light, the same kind he had that first day on the ground when the bonfire had spat and bloomed dangerously. He had been a little disappointed when the rain had come and smothered it, but he had been the only one. He likes that Emori has seen fire her whole life and still sees it for the magic it is. “No one will find us here.” 

“Mm?” he questions, not having been paying attention. 

Emori smiles, mischievous. 

“Most people won’t wander up to these parts, or dare to stay in these caves. They’re haunted.” 

He laughs despite Emori’s earnestness. 

“It’s true,” she says, unfazed by his skepticism. He knows grounders have lots of weird traditions and superstitions, but he kinda assumed Emori didn’t buy into them. “You can hear howling of keryon. The ones whose bodies were never burned, just left to the earth. They walk aimlessly, taking shelter in places like this, hoping for a rockslide that will bury them and finally let them get some sort of rest.” Emori tilts her head forward, makes her voice quiet and gritty, like she’s really trying to scare him. Her sincerity is cute. “And if that doesn’t happen they torment the living for failing to respect them in death. That’s why on some nights you can feel eyes on you when no one is there. Or why you feel pain and lack injury.” 

Emori is crowded close over the fire now, her skin tones of deep orange and hair a black veil. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself, but she doesn’t look small. No, she’s otherworldly. A phantom he’s glad he’s met. 

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” he says, Emori’s ghost story having the opposite of the intended effect, more comforting than scary. “Between the pair of us, we’ll scare them off easy enough.” 

“Because you’re just terrifying,” she jokes, pulling out of her ‘scary’ demeanor quickly. 

“I can be,” he protests, scooching around the fire to sit closer to her. Curiosity tugs on her lips and raises her eyebrows, ushering him to continue. His eyes flash back down to the fire, then the cave wall, looking for inspiration. He’s not great with words, doesn’t like telling stories, especially made-up ones. But if Emori wants a story he’ll figure something up. 

“A long time ago,” he starts. “There was this old woman. She had big hands, and a small nose, and scowled at most people. Everybody hated her. Because she was smart and resourceful and mean and didn’t care what other people said about her. And they said horrible things. When it didn’t rain enough, they blamed her. And when animals got sick, they blamed her. And one day, when a young townsperson didn’t wake up in his bed, they blamed her.” 

Emori’s face gets long, her hands sit folded and clenched in her lap, and maybe he should shut up, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. But Emori gives him the tiniest nod when he pauses, so he continues. 

“That was the final straw. They dragged her out to the edge of town, stopped at a nice thick tree. The whole town came to watch as they made her stand on a crate, tied a thick knot and wrapped it around her neck.” He exhales deep, focuses on Emori and the soft pinch of her brow, and keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “And then they kicked out the crate from under her.” He sniffs, licks his lips, shakes his head just a little bit. “And she thrashed for bit, because she didn’t weigh enough for her neck to snap. And everybody just looked at her, and did nothing. And eventually she went still, and they left. They left her there all night. 

“And the next morning they came back to get her body, cut her down. But when the rope loosened she started to laugh, all wild and scary, and with tears, her face pressed to the grass. They hadn’t killed her all the way, just left her there with her anger all night. 

“They couldn’t bear to kill her twice, wanted to—” He almost slips on the next words, but doesn’t, “banish her instead. But she stayed, living and reminding them everyday of their cruelty.” 

He stops and maybe Emori expects more, she rises to her knees next to him, her brow more pinched now. He supposes he succeeded, she looks terrified. 

“That’s not scary, John,” she says her eyes wide, like maybe she’ll cry. “That’s sad.” 

“I think it’s scary.” 

“John…” Emori says, moving towards him slowly, over a tiny distance. He shrugs his shoulders, shaking off a pair of hands that aren’t touching him. What the fuck was he thinking. Emori wanted a story. He sighs. 

She stills, any threat of tears gone. 

“Where did you hear that story?” she asks. He shrugs. It was something they said a lot on the Ark. _Alpha’s on a witch hunt. They don’t know who did it, they’re looking for a scapegoat. Someone will hang for this._ But of course it was impossible to screw up a floating. 

“Oh, you know, personal experience.” 

Emori looks at him with sympathy, and when’s the last time anyone gave him any of that? 

She has, he remembers. 

Emori mutters something to herself, good reasons, he thinks he hears, but he doesn’t know what she means. And now that he’s already exposed and can’t take it back, he realizes he doesn’t mind her knowing. It’s part of the trust thing. He thinks. 

“I take it back,” she says. “You can be scary.” He doesn’t think she means scary though. Sad, maybe, like she’d said earlier. She sits on her hands, rocks her body towards the fire. But he doesn’t think that’s what she means either. 

“I’ll scare your ghosts away, then,” he says, not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either, and desperate for a subject change. 

“And I’ll scare away yours.” 

It seems Emori has the unique talent of catching him speechless. Never for long, of course, but still. 

“Okay,” he says, because it kinda feels like they're making a pact. 

“Okay,” she agrees with a little breath that might be a laugh. She tugs her hands out from under her and settles them in her lap. 

“If we’re going to sleep, should we put out the fire?” he sighs, it seems a waste when they had just gotten it started. 

“We don’t have to, yet,” she says, and he doesn’t know if she’s talking about sleeping or the fire. “You like it, don’t you?” And he knows she means the fire. 

“Yeah,” he admits. “On the Ark you couldn’t start a fire unless you had special permission. It was too dangerous and a waste on resources.” He scoffs, and thinks about telling her about the one he started, but refrains. 

“Another reason why the ground is better?” 

“Yeah,” he starts drawing little shapes in the dirt with his finger, just for something to do. “I mean it’s not much better. Most of the people still suck.” He’s created a basic rendition of what he’s always been told houses are supposed to look like, and a child’s sun, bits of flame flying off it. 

Emori makes of sound of agreement, and he glances over at her. She’s pinching dirt between her fingers and flicking it at the fire. His next shape is a mimicry of her tattoo. He thinks about smudging it out in case she sees, but he leaves it. 

“You’re like, the exception.”

She hums and looks down, noticing his half-hearted drawings. 

“I like you too,” she says playfully, with a smile like she’s caught him doing something he shouldn’t have but is still pleased with his initiative. She draws her own shape in the dirt. A tree, full with fruit. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly as Emori lies back. He copies her, remembering the previous night and how comfortable lying next to her had been. 

The cave roof isn’t really anything like the starry sky, but the fire is still playing it’s shape making game. Murphy likes his and Emori’s version better, making something concrete, even if it was only in the dirt. Fuck the light that thought it could control his thoughts. 

The bare floor isn’t really like the wooden planks of the boat either, small rocks making it more uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because Emori isn’t laying next to him now. 

He sits up, shaking off his jacket and folds it up, a makeshift pillow. 

“We can share that,” he says, setting it between them, a good excuse to stay close to one another. Emori looks at the setup, than up at him, and doesn’t seem to find either of them pathetic, like he’s kinda thinking they are, resting her head on the edge and leaving enough room for him. 

He lays down again, next to her, their hips nudging each other. She turns on her side, creating more space, but it’s not yesterday anymore and he can’t help but turn to face her. The space isn’t really all that much. 

Her lips are open, just a little bit, and he waits for her to say whatever it is she’s going to say, but after several soft minutes all she says is his name. Like he’s a curiosity. A piece of shiny tech in the desert that she doesn’t know how to use but that will keep her fed for weeks. 

He nods, in recognition of her address, but also as an affirmation, an ‘I agree’, permission. But ultimately, he leans forward to meet her lips too. 

It’s soft and close-lipped and a good first kiss. Good enough for them to kiss a second and third time without thinking, and for Emori to break that third kiss because of her smile. One wide enough that he can see each of her teeth sparkle to match the gleam in her eyes. It’s almost inconvenient because seeing her smile like that just makes him want to kiss her more. But then again, his heart is soaring so high he doesn’t know if he could manage. 

Emori schooches closer to him, her smile pressed to his collarbone, and he feels her thread their fingers together. 

“‘S nice,” she might say, muffled by his shirt. He kisses her head, ignores the pebbles digging into his side and the encroaching damp chill of the cave in favor of feeling Emori pressed next to him. Both of them happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the tone of this chapter was so all over the place, yikes.  
> The story Murphy tells is inspired by the poem “Half-Hanged Mary” by Margaret Atwood, which in turn is based on the story of Mary Webster, you can read it [ here](http://lhsela.weebly.com/uploads/7/9/0/8/7908073/_half_hanged_mary.pdf)


	4. Eating

The morning is warm. Distantly he knows that's because the cave protects them from the wind and that the fire has scared away the chill, but that knowledge is far away, and hazy around the edges. The morning is also slow, like Emori’s deep breaths, which he can feel against his chest from where she's tucked against it. 

Murphy keeps his eyes shut, walking the uneven line between sleeping and waking as his hand runs up and down Emori’s back, soft and unthinkingly. Maybe he drifts off again, but it feels like only a few minutes later when Emori’s breathing changes, shaking away his sleep too. 

He sits up slowly, trying not to make the way he extracts himself from Emori weird. She must not think it is because she pops to her feet as he’s still yawning and wiping sleep from his eyes and dirt from his clothes. 

In the daylight the cave seems far more barren. Their supplies are clearly limited, and their packs look flat and depleted. He dusts off his jacket, and even the garment seems lifeless and weak after a night spent under their heads. 

The fire has been smothered in ash, which means Emori must have woken up at some point to put it out, and it also means that she had tucked herself back into him afterwards. He tries to smother his smile at the realization, but figures if Emori makes him happy she might as well know it. 

“So, we running your con?” He asks, looking to Emori. 

“In the afternoon, probably,” Emori says, she seems to be a bit put-off too, surveying their meager surroundings. “We’ll need to get a few things first.” 

“Like…”

“We’ll need to set traps. For small game. If it’s going to look like you were left on the side of the road to die, then it needs to be convincing, and I’m not using your blood for that.” He laughs a bit at that, even though it’s not funny, remembering other grounders who had been quite happy to see his blood. Emori furrows her brow, but he shrugs off her confusion. If he needs to have squirrel blood smeared on him, he’ll have squirrel blood smeared on him. It’s amazing how quickly one can get desensitized to these things. 

“And then we get to eat what’s leftover?” He asks, thinking with his stomach, which will probably never manage to be full, but a guy can hope. 

“And then we get to eat what’s leftover.”

Emori only packs a few things, a utilitarian knife that looks made for working instead of stabbing, but that would probably do in a pinch, as well as the drawstrings that they’d used in their fishing rods yesterday. They leave the rest of their stuff. It’s a risk, technically, but Emori’s convinced that no one’s going to wander up to these parts, and if the last of their stuff was stolen it wouldn’t be the biggest loss. He’s made do with less, and no doubt Emori has too. 

Hunting, according to Emori, takes too much time. With small game there’s a necessary patience and quickness that neither of them have, made all the harder by the fact that they don’t have a bow or arrows, and that his gun only has six bullets they can’t afford to waste. 

So they set traps. Murphy had been arrested before he was old enough to start Earth Skills class, and the only part of Pike’s crash course that he really remembers is the day that the teacher tried to choke him out, and even that was more out of necessity that any desire to learn whatever the psycho was trying to teach. But he vaguely remembers diagrams that had been drawn on the board for setting a rope spring trap with a sapling, and that’s what Emori has in mind. She only has to give him a few pointers about what knots to tie before they split up, remaining within shouting distance, to set up the traps. 

It’s kinda fun, there’s a precision and balance required, and when he tests the first one and it ensnares his arm like it’s meant to, he feels a flurry of excitement, of anticipation. 

He yells to tell Emori that his is done once he’s reset it. They don’t have enough string for more than three traps, and they’re not going to waste time weaving straw together, so they meet in the middle to set the final one together. 

They finish, and for a moment he feels that same thrum of anticipation, before it gets buried when he thinks of all the more waiting that they’ll have to do. 

“More waiting, huh?” He says as Emori proudly inspects their handiwork. 

“Unfortunately,” she says, and he’s glad that he’s not the only one who’s uneasy in stillness. Having company makes it better, especially when the company is Emori, who moves and thinks like a desert wind, unpredictable, and equally likely to be harsh as to be relieving. Around him she mostly seems to be the latter. And he’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts. 

“We can look for some nuts and berries,” Emori suggests, “then come back in a couple of hours.” She brushes her hand off on her pant leg, and leads the way out of the grove where they’d planted their traps. 

“Sounds like a plan,” he says. They’re walking downhill now, which makes sense, the area around the cave is more rocky, not a great place for flowering vegetation. He’s trying to keep track of where he is, so if on the off chance he and Emori get split up he’ll be able to make his way back to her. 

They slow down when the sound of rushing water can be heard. It’s not the river they came off the boat from, but a much smaller stream cutting through the woods. He and Emori both stop to drink, before inspecting the shrubs on the opposite side of the water. 

By his count it can’t be later than mid-March, and he suspects it’s still too close to winter for there to really be any fruit yet. He looks anyway, annoyed that every plant evolved to have spines or thorns when they don’t even have fruit to protect. He grumbles as he wipes his hand on his pants for the third time, annoyed at the prickling. He looks over at Emori, who is sorting through leaves and branches with her gloved hand, like a smart person. His jacket sleeves aren’t exactly flexible, but he’s been abusing the garment enough that tugging the sleeves longer to cover his palm and the back of his hand as his fingers wrap around the edge isn’t difficult. 

Avoiding injury doesn’t make berries any easier to find. He’s about to suggest they give up when he spots a bush with dark red berries. They’re about the size of a pupil, and come clustered in groups of two or three. 

“Hey Emori!” He calls, plucking one off it’s stem. “Are these any good?” 

Emori squints in his direction before shaking her head with a laugh. “Only if you want to be throwing your guts up for the next couple of hours!” 

He rolls his eyes. “A ‘no’ would’ve sufficed!”

Emori chuckles again, and turns her attention back to her own search. He decides to change tactics and move further away from the stream. The shrubs are a different breed, but they don’t seem to be bearing any fruit either. Or he doesn’t think so until a spot of red catches his eye, growing close to the ground, secluded enough that the birds wouldn’t be able to get at it easily. 

He plucks it, surprised when he recognizes it. A strawberry. It’s about the size of his thumb nail, and a light pink color instead of the deeper red he would expect. It’s not ripe yet, but he doesn’t care, devouring it in one bite. 

It’s a little burst of flavor on his tongue, sharp and sweeter than almost anything he’s ever eaten. There had been artificial sweeteners on the Ark, but you could only get them if you were in Alpha, or if you traded half your soul, so the only time he had ever had any was in a muffin-esque pastry that had been given to him when he was sick and too feverish to really enjoy it. He can’t even imagine what a fully ripe strawberry might taste like. 

“Emori!” He yells as he begins to search for more. A felled tree has opened up this area to get more sunlight, and is probably what’s aiding the berries’ growth. Emori comes to meet him without further prompting. “Strawberry?” He says, holding up one that’s more white than pink, and tossing it to her. 

“Nice,” she says in acknowledgement, popping it in her mouth before she starts picking them too. 

They eat as many as they can find, even the bitter white and green ones. There’s not enough to warrant coming back later, at least not until the warmer months, so there’s no guilt in their lack of restraint. By the time they’ve picked the bush clean, Murphy’s fingers are sticky, and there are seeds stuck in his teeth. 

“Are we gonna look for more, or…” he asks as Emori continues to swat at the bush, her attitude suggesting she’s not truly expecting to find any more. Her lips look redder, which doesn’t make a lot of sense considering he’s yet to see a red strawberry, but still. He kissed those lips last night, and he wonders if they’re supposed to talk about it. He doesn’t think he wants to. It was nice, had felt right. He’ll bring it up if Emori starts acting weird, or if it doesn’t happen again. He nods a little to himself, and meets Emori’s eyes. He’s been caught staring. 

“No, we can go check the traps,” she answers, her lips bending into a pleased little smile. Yeah, no, it’s definitely happening again. 

They walk back to the grove, a light jolt in their steps coming from the success of the berry picking. He considers for a moment what they’ll do if they haven’t caught anything, but only in the most abstract of ways. Call it that weird optimism from a few days ago, but he kinda thinks they’ve been successful. It’s been about two hours, at least, long enough for something to get ensnared. 

The first trap, the one he set, is empty, as is the second, although it’s been sprung, so something likely slipped the knot. After they reset them both they go to check on the third, where they find a hare struggling uselessly, dangling from the tree. Emori smiles in triumph, grabs the rabbit by the neck, and kills it quickly. He resets the trap as she takes care of it. 

“Alright,” Emori says, just as he finishes setting the trap. “Come sit by me.”

He does, squatting across from her, but Emori just looks at him, eyes wide with expectation. 

“What?” he says, “aren’t you gonna dirty me up?” 

“I will, once you take your shirt off.” 

He can’t help but huff, embarrassed, but also a bit charmed by her insistence. Not that she looks anything other than deadly serious and slightly impatient. He rolls his eyes, figures she saw him in less yesterday, and slips out of his jacket before pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Better?” He says, bracing his arms on his knees, hunching over a bit. Her eyes flick over his frame but not in the way he thought they would. 

“Yes,” Emori says, hard, her mouth open, smile gone. He stops rubbing his upper arm at the word, not knowing why he had been doing it in the first place. It’s not that cold. 

“Hey,” he says, and her eyes snap to meet his, “Do what you've gotta, it's fine.”

She eases at his words and inches closer running her hand across the ground so dirt can collect on her fingers. It's not muddy, not when it hasn't rained in days, but it's still wet enough to stick to his skin when she rubs it from above his right ear to just under his lip. He doesn't flinch. 

“You'll have to lay on that side,” she says, her lips almost brushing his nose. Her hand dips into the belly of the bunny next, her fingers coming out sticky with blood. 

She moves to slick it across him, but she stops short, her fingers a hairspace away from the junction of his jaw and neck. 

Her eyes flicker to the side to meet his. 

“This is okay?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and means it. “I meant it, do what you've gotta.” 

She tilts her head up in what might be a nod, or simply an adjustment to get a better view of her work. He can feel her exhale against his temple.

Unlike the dirt, the blood is warm against his skin, amplified by the heat of her fingers under it. They trace from the corner of his jaw, down and around his neck, to his clavicle, and despite the warmth he shivers under her touch. 

He twitches when she traces the path a second time, wonders if she has to go so slowly, or if she's noticed his heavy breathing. The third time she mixes some of the dirt with blood to make it look thicker, and adds another “injury” to his temple. 

“There,” she says once she's cleaned her hand by wiping it on his shoulder, another injury, he figures. He waits for her to tell him to go play dead, but she doesn't. She hasn't even moved away from him, still kneeling a hand space away, her hand still on his upper arm, even if her fingers are slowly curling inward, so that it's her knuckles that rest against him. 

“Actually,” she says, “you’ve got a little…” 

Her thumb, that by all means isn't actually clean, comes up and wipes at his bottom lip, her other fingers curling under it. She hesitates.

“I don't think you got it,” he says heavily, the pressure of her touch still present. He swears that for a moment something hazy swims in her eyes before she changes her grip just a bit and closes the small distance to kiss him. 

It's not like last night. She tastes like the strawberries, for one, not quite sweet but not quite sour either. Her hand grips his dirtied shoulder as she presses closer and he rises to meet her. This kiss is deep and he feels his heart thud in his chest because of it. 

They break away and his eyes open slowly. 

“What was that for, good luck?”

“Sure,” Emori says, and his lips twitch when he hears how breathless she sounds. “I'm not the one who’s going to need it.” 

He thinks about challenging her, but Emori is already standing, ready to scamper away and he’s not going to be left in the dust. 

It’s not as far to the road as he thought, the trees thin not even fifteen minutes later, revealing a wide dirt road that’s been well-packed by feet and cart wheels. Never would he have thought the grounders sophisticated enough to have a proper road. When Emori had suggested the con, he had thought more along the lines of the deer trails that the dropship camp had made use of to hunt, clearly he’s been mistaken.

“We’ll need to move further down,” Emori says, “This road gets a lot of traffic because it leads to Polis, but we need to be far enough out that we don’t run into multiple people mid-con.” 

He nods in understanding, but his attention snags on one word. “Polis?” 

“The capital,” Emori clarifies. “There’s a big market and people from all twelve clans go there to trade.” 

“Huh.” His concept of grounders has grown from simply ‘torturers’, to something like ‘the war-mongering people of earth’ over the past couple of months, but not really much beyond that. It’s weird to think of them in peace. “What’s that like?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Emori says, a bitter note in her voice. “If anyone there suspected me of being a stain, they’d kill me on sight.”

He hadn’t been guilty about the idea of stealing from people on the road before, but now he has to admit he’s kinda looking forward to it. If they won’t even allow people like Emori into their capital it’s the least they deserve. He braces himself against the rise of twitchy anticipation, looking to Emori instead, concern bubbling up unbidden at the sight of her pressed lips. He nudges their shoulders against each other as they walk, a little reminder. 

“Well, we aren’t the only ones who won’t be going to town today,” he says, and that draws a fierce and playful smile from Emori, so he knows it was the right thing to say. 

“Here will be good,” Emori says, when they reach a place near the road with grasses high and thick. In her greenish clothes and with the delicacy her movements possess, he knows there’s no risk of someone spotting her. “Go.”

He stumbles into the road, feeling pretty stupid when he’s standing there alone, shirtless and smeared in rabbit’s blood. Of course the only way to amend that is to lie down and play dead like he’s supposed to, so that’s what he does. For a second he thinks he hears Emori snicker, so he mimes kicking out his leg in her direction before letting his limbs go slack and heavy. There’s a tiredness that’s been lingering in his bones for as long as he can remember, so it’s easy. It feels like the opposite of a restless sleep. 

This isn’t the sort of waiting he dreads, maybe because he knows what it’s leading up to, but with his eyes closed the time that passes, either great or minimal, doesn’t seem to matter. He’s not counting the seconds away. 

Sometime later, seconds or hours, he hears footsteps, proving that not all grounders can walk as silently as Emori. He stays as still as he has been, even when part of him wants to open his eyes and see who their victim is, or to check on Emori. She’ll be so mad if he moves. 

He doesn't know who's coming, but when he feels a hand on his shoulder it’s small and fairly uncalloused, what would be considered dainty for a grounder. 

When she speaks, for it's definitely a young girl, her words are clearly concerned, even if Murphy hasn't a clue what she's saying. She nudges him enough to roll him over and proceeds to pat awkwardly at his face and chest, until she makes a muffled squeal of distress. 

“Shhhh,” Emori says, something universal in both their languages, and it makes him feel comfortable enough to open his eyes and roll to his feet. The girl is younger than he thought, the face tattoo not making her lingering baby fat look any fiercer. Her eyes are wide with fear as Emori's gloved hand covers her mouth and keeps her held tight to her body as she whispers something into her ear. Emori has already worked the bag slung over the girl’s shoulder into her own grasp and is now reaching into her pockets and tossing what she finds to the side. The girl doesn't struggle, which is nice. She seems to know that she's out of her element. The wide-eyed look she sends to him conveys that she thinks he's a bear that just ate her lunch and is still hungry. And it's not like he's really trying, but he supposes he's doing a pretty good job of looking mean. 

It's been about three minutes since the girl stumbled upon him, but it seems Emori has gotten everything they need because in the next moment Emori does something fancy with her feet, tripping the girl, before knocking her out with a blow to the back of her head. 

“Alright let's go,” she says, collecting the items she had tossed aside and putting them in the what is now their bag. They head into the brambles, moving as quickly as they can without making too much noise, although he feels like cheering after their success. 

“I think that went well,” he says once they're far enough away from the road that he doesn't fear anyone stumbling upon them. 

“You make a good corpse,” Emori says with a cheeky grin and he snickers. He does, but he’s glad he’s still alive to do it. 

“An alive corpse. How many of those do you know?” He’s joking, but something shifty and dark comes over Emori’s face. She blinks it away.

“More than you’d think,” she says, trying for humor, but with a hard edge still dropping on the last syllable. “You’re better looking than most of them,” she adds, and a warmth expands from his chest. 

“High praise,” he says, making fun of her compliment even while he holds it close to his chest. 

“You’ll be passable once you wash off,” she says, motioning to the dirt and blood on his chest. That she put there. He rolls his eyes.

“Glad that I’ll be able to upgrade from dead,” he says, knocking Emori’s shoulder as they walk. She smiles, clearly happy with herself. 

They arrive at the stream from that morning not much later, and he’s glad to be cleaner, even when blood is as hard to wash off as it ever was. He humors himself by flicking water at Emori while she refills their canteen, figuring that if he has to splash the cold water on himself, she deserves to get a little wet as well. 

“Can I get my shirt back now?” He asks, once he’s clean and only a little damp. She tosses him his shirt and jacket both, and he’s pretty sure she’s a little flustered at the request. She turns her back to him and begins to lead the way back to the cave as he tugs on his shirt. 

Everything is as they left it this morning, although their possessions seem meager even after their heist. Emori dumps out the contents of the girl’s bag. There’s what was probably meant to be her lunch, bread and cheese wrapped in cloth, and several colorful bracelets, one made of beads and two of string, the things Emori had pulled from her pockets. There’s a knife as well, but the grip is too small for either him or Emori to use comfortably. Other than that it’s just the an extra set of clothes she had been carrying, again too small. Emori seems eager to have them anyway, and he thinks that, like on the Ark, extra scraps of fabric are good to have for mending. Emori’s pants are quite riddled with holes. 

“It's not a lot,” he says, looking on as Emori carefully sorts everything.

“No,” Emori agrees, “but it’s something. And it's nice to have an easy target for your first time.” 

He wants to protest at being called an amateur, but her logic is sound, and he doesn't want to argue with her anyway, so he lets it go uncontested. It's not like Emori actually doubted his ability, it was just a trial run. 

“And we have enough to eat,” she says, not just the bread and cheese, but the rabbit too, which she now unpacks from the cloth she had tightly packed it in. 

“I should get started on the fire, then,” he says, getting up to go collect wood. 

When he comes back Emori is munching on the loaf of bread, and has finished preparing the meat. 

“It'll take awhile to cook,” she says, once they've started the fire and have put the rabbit on a spit. He nods and accepts the last two bites of the bread that she offers. 

Emori gets up, inspecting their limited supplies once again, this time with more contemplation. 

“In a couple days we’ll have enough to go get Otan,” she says and he stops mid bite, wondering if he’ll be able to enjoy the crust of the bread now. He looks up at Emori, who is standing guard over the fire, looking down so he can’t see her face. Dread worms its way under his chest, itchy, like an old blanket. He watches her feet scuff in the dirt, waiting for her to say more, when she doesn’t, he stands. 

Calling her plan stupid would be the wrong word, it’s rooted in desperation, not foolishness, but it bears many of the same traits. When he comes to stand beside her, Emori looks up at him with something close to hesitant hope. 

He wants to be gentle with her, but it's so hard when he knows something she doesn't. That there's no getting Otan back. 

“Emori,” he says, “there's no getting Otan back.” He braces for her yells, for her offended huffs and stomping feet. But the only difference in her demeanor is the tightening of her brow. She’s not like that, he reminds himself, she’s reasonable. “He's with Jaha now. We won't be able to just convince him to come along.” Emori doesn’t look like she’s going to protest, which is surprising. But this is probably something she knows, something that’s been locked in a stalemate with the part of her that wants her brother back. Maybe she just needs someone to make the decision for her, so the war in her head can quiet for a little while. He finishes with the most damning evidence, to put her swell of earnestness to rest. “He held a knife to your throat, Emori.”

Her face darkens at the reminder, and he doesn't want to see that, but he keeps looking anyway. 

“Do you believe people can change?” she asks, taking a step away from the fire. He doesn’t know where that thought came from exactly, but he does know why she’s thinking it. 

He scratches his nose, thinks about Jaha, tackling Richards before he could blow himself up, but then throwing Craig into the sea. Remembers his mom, who for nine years had kissed his forehead every night before bed. Who hadn’t for the following three. 

“Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat, more conspicuously than he would like. Emori nods, as if in agreement, but he can’t help but feel they’re not on the same page. “It’s not usually for the better, though.” 

She stills, her gaze falling from his face, and he turns to face her fully, challenging her to meet him again. She does, and his heart hammers at the straightening of her spine, never one to wallow. “Otan thinks the opposite,” she says, and he’s blocking the firelight from shining on her, but there’s smoldering embers in her eyes anyway. 

“That’s stupid,” he says, before he thinks about how calling her brother stupid isn’t the smartest thing itself. 

“I know,” Emori says, which surprises him, until he realizes it shouldn’t have. She sits, but doesn’t make herself smaller for it, and he takes that to mean he should too. The fire heats his back. “It’s a nice thought, just not a practical one.”

He nods in agreement, wondering, but not asking, if that matter has been put to rest. The twist of her jaw tells him it hasn’t, at least not in her own head. It’s hard to do the practical thing over the stupid one when it’s your brother, he bets. 

He considers telling her about Bellamy, all the impractical things he’d done for his sister, maybe she’d get a laugh from the tying Atom to a tree story, but he bites his tongue at the last second. In reality, he knows jack-shit about what having a sibling entails. 

“Can you turn the spit?” she asks, half-awkward, but only half. She rocks forward a little bit, to be closer to the fire, closer to him, too. He turns around and does as she asks. 

The meat is beginning to smell good, even if he doesn’t think it’s close to done yet. 

“Looks good,” he says, scooching to the side so Emori can see. 

“It’ll take a bit longer,” she confirms, moving up to sit beside him. There’s something bitter in the tilt of her head, not directed at him, necessarily, but it stings the same as if she meant it to. So does the silence that sits between them, amplified by the distance, interrupted only by the popping fire. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in response. 

Emori squints at the noise, like she’s never heard anyone do it before. 

“What?” he says, then makes the sound again. Emori tilts her head, in curiosity this time, a look that suits her much better, in his opinion. “You just put the tip of your tongue to the top of your mouth and let it fall,” he explains, doing it once more, but slower to demonstrate. Emori makes an attempt, but it comes out sounding sort of splatty. He can’t help the laugh that bubbles up at her expense. 

“Shut up,” she says, pushing his shoulder, but he doesn’t even after she gets the hang of it. 

“I can’t believe people don’t do that on the ground,” he says, glad that the set of Emori’s shoulders has loosened. 

“We’ve found better things to do with our tongues,” she says glancing at him from the corner of her eye, and raising one eyebrow. He chokes on air. 

“What?” he asks, then shakes his head, blinking away flustering thoughts as Emori starts to laugh. “Nevermind.” 

She throws a twig into the fire, then turns the spit again, the meat mostly brown now.

“Almost done,” she says appraisingly. “You hungry?”

“Just assume I always am,” he says with a nod. Emori hums, poking at their dinner with stick. 

“If there’s no animals in space, what do you eat?” She asks, that curious shine in her eyes. He settles back on his hands, watching her tend to the fire as he explains Farm Station. Or what he knows about Farm Station; he doesn’t really have enough answers for all of Emori’s questions. But the food is probably the easiest part of the Ark to explain, both from a practical standpoint and from an avoiding-the-things-he-doesn’t-like-talking-about standpoint. And it’s made all the easier by Emori’s curiosity, which is both bright-eyed and brow furrowing. 

Their meal is done shortly, although it’s too hot to touch. As they wait for it to cool Emori tells him about her favorite meal, some sort of desert rodent that’s charred to the point of looking far too overdone. Apparently it gives it a roasted taste and crispy texture. He has his doubts, remembering poorly cooked panther from back at the Dropship, but nods along anyway. 

“I’ll make it for you sometime,” she says, taking a tentative bite of her share of the rabbit. 

“There’s nothing you could tempt me with to get me to go back to that desert.” 

Emori licks her lips. “Fair enough,” she says. “It’s not a life for everyone.” 

He thinks about how it was the only life she was offered, the desert or death. It had eroded her on the outside, clearly, leaving her skin rough and scarred, but it hadn’t managed to hollow her out on the inside. 

“Not for the faint of heart,” he agrees. Only for the desperate really, people with nowhere else to go. “Or anyone with common sense,” is what he says. 

“Some of us like living on the edge,” Emori says, and he can’t quite tell if she’s being ironic or not. The way she says it is both wistful and enlivened, like some sort of hyper nostalgia. 

She wipes some juices off her chin. He takes that as a sign that the food’s good to eat, and takes a bite. It’s sorta stringy, and not tender, but it’s warm and filling which is all he could really hope for. 

“‘S good,” he tells her before taking another bite. She finishes before him, dismantles their spit, and keeps sending him glances like she can’t believe it’s taking that much time to finish eating. 

“What’s the rush?” He asks, taking bigger bites despite himself, “we don’t have anywhere to be.” 

She shakes her head like his eating habits are a personality flaw that can’t be changed and thus aren’t worth addressing. And he might have plenty of those, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t one of them. 

“You’re a good cook,” he continues, “might as well savor it.”

“My cooking is sustainable,” she says, “not good. You’re just a flatterer.”

“Well you’re feeding me, I figure I should be,” he says, doesn’t mention how praise and lies and venom all fall from his lips with equal ease, depending on what he needs. That’s not what this conversation is about. He was being genuine after all. 

“It’s not necessary,” she says shortly, and he shrugs wiping his hands on his pants, making up his mind to compliment her more in the future. He adds more fuel to the fire, not wanting it to dim. It’s warmer tonight than it has been recently, but it could be warmer. 

“You know we’re going to have to put it out soon,” Emori says, she’d been watching him. “I’d rather not get up in the middle of the night to do it again.” 

He holds his hands up in surrender, then kicks the extra kindling away with the toe of his boot. For a moment he thinks Emori is going to start telling one of her poorly constructed stories again, but she stays silent as she moves closer to him, watching the fire shrink with the same meandering attention as him. 

He catches a yawn in his throat, then starts to unlace his boots and shrug off his jacket to fold up again. Emori actually takes one of his discarded boots in hand to stamp out the last dying embers, which pulls an unsuspecting laugh out of him at the image of her bent over, bearing his shoe with the same dexterity and focus as her knife. 

“Is that what you did last night?” He asks, the remnants of laughter still bobbing in his chest. 

“Last night I used my shoe,” she replies, settling down more comfortably, her arm against his. 

It isn’t quite dark, or it is, but it doesn’t feel it. Like night is somehow more comfortable when you have someone to spend it with. 

“Are you tired?” Emori asks, the drop in her voice suggesting she might be herself. 

“Maybe,” he says, they had done a lot of walking today, “I could stay up.” And he would, if there was something she wanted to tell him. If there were something she wanted to talk about. She leans back onto their uncomfortable little pillow instead, her arm on his unconsciously nudging him back as well. 

“Sleep, John,” she says, and he’s about to close his eyes when he catches himself, leaning forward a tiny amount to kiss her goodnight instead. 

“Sleep well,” he says, his heart fluttering at the sight of her closed eyes and pleased little smile.

“Sleep well,” she echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highlights from my outline include:  
> Emori: you're slightly hotter than a dead person  
> Murphy: *hearteyes* 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, they make writing the fic more fun :)


	5. Dreaming

There’s a box around him. A metal one, probably; he can’t see anything, but it’s cool to the touch. It’s cramped, not long enough for him to stretch out either his arms or his legs. He curls into himself to avoid contact with any of the walls. If he isn’t touching them, he might be able to convince himself they aren’t there. But the feeling of the entrapped space never leaves, the walls seem closer now and he can’t remember how he got here. 

“Hey!” He calls out, but his voice doesn’t travel far, instead it sounds week, like he can’t get enough air to make the sound carry. He strikes up, over his head, but his arm doesn’t even straighten all the way before his palm connects with the ceiling, sending a jarring ring straight down into the socket of his shoulder. 

“Let me out!” He screams, fear tasting cold in his mouth and bouncing off the hollow insides of his body. He kicks out, again and again, heedless to the painful jolt to his knees, waiting for the stupid box to nudge, but it doesn’t, his protesting only echoing uselessly against the tinny walls. 

He screams again, then feels a heavy drop in his chest, like falling, like floating, and he flinches awake. 

There’s no box, just the cave, open on one end. 

“John?” 

Emori. Emori is here, propping herself up on one elbow, her foot nudging his calf. Wide-eyed and wide awake, she looks at him with deep concentration and insistence. It’s an odd form of concern. He pushes a deep gust past his lips. 

“You were shaking,” she informs him. He blinks heavily a few times; there’s an echoing ring in his ears, a tension in his muscles not born of stiffness, the remnants of a dream lingering in his body but fleeing from his mind.

“Was I?” he asks, doubtful. The taste in his mouth is like nickel. 

“Like a leaf.” He pauses, makes sure his limbs are still. 

“Sorry for waking you,” he responds. It’s morning, but by the looks of it early morning. She should still be sleeping. 

“I wasn’t asleep,” she tells him. 

“Why?” She shakes her head at the question, letting his concern slide off like it hadn’t been directed at her at all. 

“Where you dreaming?” she asks, a deflection, surely, but an honest and curious one. 

“Probably,” he answers, sitting up. Emori shifts slightly to accommodate his knees as he crosses them; they still nudge as they sit side-by-side. 

Emori is quiet for a long breath, and when he glances over at her he realizes she was waiting for him to elaborate. 

“I don’t remember it,” he explains, almost defensive. “It wasn’t pleasant, though,” he continues, softer. Emori nods in understanding and doesn’t press for more, not that he’d be able to share even if it were something he’d like to do. 

“I don't do that,” Emori says, playing with her shoelace. It seems an odd thing to be self-conscious about. Unless it’s a lie she’s telling herself, and is now sharing with him, one that’s woven together loosely and threatens to unwind at the slightest tug. 

“What? Dream?” Everybody dreams, he knows that, people just forget them too easily. But Emori nods, as if she doesn’t believe herself capable of it. 

“In the desert sleeping leaves you vulnerable. Otan and I would sleep only in short shifts, the dreams never come that way.” He wonders if it’s only physical vulnerability that she’s shying away from. He thinks of her eyes in the desert, how tired they had been. Afterwards he had thought she was just a good actress, but there's truth in all of Emori's cons. No doubt there's a bit of truth now too. 

“You’re not missing much,” he says. By now he thinks he knows Emori well enough to know that if she were to dream, there wouldn’t be much good in them. He remembers the first night on the boat, remembers hoping nightmares wouldn’t plague her. He’s glad it’s something she’s able to avoid. Or at least something she’s avoided in the past. 

Emori tilts her head, her throat working like she’s swallowing a pit. “Are you going back to sleep?” she asks. 

“Only if you do,” he answers, already knowing she won’t. He’s always tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep right now anyway. Emori looks dubious, and he reaches out, snaking an arm around her waist before he can think about it too much. She doesn’t flinch away so he figures that it’s fine. “We don’t have to get up, though.” 

He urges Emori to lean back down next to him. “We have things to do, John,” she says, but she goes with the movement, squirming a bit as she attempts to get comfortable. 

“It’s early, they can wait,” he says, and if he hadn’t been awake before, he surely is now, feeling the tickle of Emori’s hair against the side of his head, her hand falling down to rest against his stomach. “There are more important things,” he continues, allowing his hand to come rest atop hers. 

“Like what?” 

What’s more important than catching their next meal? More important than surviving for tomorrow? Words catch before they leave his mouth, and he hasn’t a notion of what they would have been. Instead he says nothing, consciously stopping himself from stroking her knuckle with his thumb, before he rethinks it and starts the motion again. 

Emori doesn’t make him answer her question, her eyes falling down to their hands. Maybe it’s the early morning light, soft, because of the way it’s filtered through clouds, that makes Emori’s voice quiet, reverent of the birth of the new day. Or maybe she attempts gentleness for other reasons entirely. 

“John?” she says, the way her tongue curls around the syllable of his name making something at the base of his spine shiver. “What are you afraid of?” 

The question catches him half-off guard, like he has his knife is out but he’s still flat on his back. From anyone else it would sound like a trust exercise, one he’d scoff at and never consider partaking in. But, small miracle, he does trust Emori, who only asks because she wants to know him. 

If only he knew himself, maybe he’d have an answer for her. 

“A lot of things,” he settles for, trying to convince himself the lack of bravado is okay. His molars grind together, and he wants to turn away from her the moment he’s said it, but that would mean letting go of her, and he can’t do that either. 

“I don’t want to be controlled,” Emori says, a rush of words. Either she felt the tug that wanted to pull him away and needed something to catch the end of his rope, or she too finds the admission a sign of weakness. Maybe they both have a fear of vulnerability. 

“I don’t want to be trapped,” he tells her, the same rushed string of words, a sort of solidarity, even if he has to turn his head away as a barrier against the harsh whip of exposure. 

He still feels Emori’s eyes on him though, on the side of his neck. 

She turns over her hand where it’s resting against him, so they’re palm to palm, and laces their fingers together. He squeezes, and so does she, the strength between their clasped hands in that moment more than what either of them have on their own. He turns to look at her again. Up close her eyes look big enough to be twin portholes, only the brown in them is so much richer than the ink of space. She’s really beautiful. 

He hesitates this time, before he kisses her, something choked up inside him. But he still kisses her, the hard press of the ground against the side of his skull compensated by softness of her lips. 

It’s short. The strain on his neck is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to stop, not after hearing the tiny little gasp that escapes Emori’s mouth, so he turns to his side, their hands falling into the space between their bodies. 

She inches forward when they kiss again, longer this time, lips catching. A part of him keeps expecting her to pull away, but she only presses closer, and his already closed eyes tighten when he feels the warmth incubated between them. 

Her lips travel to his cheek and the edge of his jaw, still so soft, like she doesn’t quite know how hard to press. He likes it. He thinks it means she cares. His hand grips hers harder to stop himself from shaking again, but he gives it away in the next moment when his exhale quivers across her skin. 

He kisses her again, quick, to disguise it, but when Emori’s licks at his bottom lip he thinks that maybe she didn’t notice, or maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she liked it. He dares to move closer to her in turn. 

She unravels their hands, and he misses it, but then she cups his cheek, and he doesn’t mind so much. His own hand finds her back, traces the slopes of her shoulder blades through her shirt, wonders what her skin feels like. Wonders how much heat she radiates. 

Emori rolls onto her back, and his hands travel to her waist by necessity, he can feel her breath under his palms. He leans over to kiss her cheek, tries not to crowd her. He finds that the skin under her tattoo doesn’t feel any different, but that when he kisses the uneven curve of her scar on the other side her breath hitches. So he does it again. 

He feels all flushed, like touching Emori has injected a tingling warmth into his chest that expands to balance on his shoulders and wrap around his neck, gently, like a scarf. They kiss again, and this time neither of them are tentative as they seek out to taste one another. He didn’t know there could be this rhythm to kissing, he lets himself get swept up in it, lets himself fall a bit. 

It’s easy like that for a while, until Emori latches onto his bicep and just as quickly rips her touch away, stiffening in the same moment. He pulls back. 

“What?” he asks, the croakiness of his own voice surprising him. Emori shakes her head. 

“Nothing,” she says, “I just forgot.” 

He’s about to ask her what she forgot when she notices the way she’s holding herself. Her covered hand tucked under herself, pressed against the dirt floor. It must be the one she had ripped away from him, with his eyes closed he hadn’t been able to tell the difference, not through the cotten of his shirt. 

“I didn’t mind,” he tells her, then corrects himself, and is just a bit more truthful, “I liked it.” 

Emori blinks up at him, disbelieving, but then she blinks again, and he thinks she does believe him. He wants to kiss her again, have her press that hand to his cheek to prove it to her, but she’s sitting up and then standing and he knows the moment is lost. 

But maybe not totally. “I liked it too,” she says, offering him her hand, the one she had gone such lengths to keep tucked away from him, and pulls him to his feet. “Let’s go check the traps.”

Emori is quick to pack away the supplies they’ll need, but manages in her rummaging to send him a smile over her shoulder. It works as a balm to an anxious itch he hadn’t known was present, and he walks beside her easily as they make their way down the hill. 

They both have a certain lightness of foot, most likely equally propelled by hunger and whatever good mood the kissing had instilled. The feeling is amplified when they discover a squirrel in one of traps, too exhausted to continue struggling. 

Emori cuts it down with easy precision, and he watches this time as she opens it up. He needs to know how to do it without her. The thought is a bitter reminder; it makes him grimace. After that he focuses on the work of her hands, the angle of her knife, her careful movements. He wouldn’t be able to mimic her so easily, but he thinks he could do it passably. 

He tugs off his shirt without having to be prompted when Emori finishes. It’s harder to sit still this time as she slicks some of the blood over his shoulders. It seems counterintuitive considering that he’s only growing more accustomed to her touch, but the desire to both shift closer and further away from her as her thumb presses into the hollow of his throat squirms in his gut. 

“Is this still okay?” Emori asks, looking up to meet his eyes, while he stays focused on her forehead. He thought she wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Yeah,” he says, without even stumbling on the words. And it is still okay, he’s almost sure he likes it, but the sort of anticipation it rises in him is dangerous, frightening. 

Emori looks down and nods to herself. She finishes a moment later, cleaning her hand with swift, distracted swipes. 

“We can’t go to the same spot,” Emori says, shouldering their bag. “People will definitely report what we’re doing, and we don’t want to give them a clear pattern to follow.” He nods along, the idea that someone might come out to look for them hadn’t occurred to him, but if they’re working the main road into the capital city, he supposes it makes sense. Grounders don’t take crimes lightly, Finn had made that clear. They can’t get caught. 

They walk to a place where the road forks to increase the likelihood of someone stumbling upon him. According to Emori they shouldn’t have to wait long, it’s nearly midday, which constitutes as a busy time. 

“Just do the same thing as yesterday,” she says, unsheathing a knife to have ready. She holds it casually, in a way that belies her lethality. “You’re a good corpse.” 

“Thanks for the encouragement,” he says, his tone habitually dripping. Not that he has any real doubts in their ability to pull off the con again. 

Emori smiles, like it’s their own private joke. Just something else they’re in on together. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling to match her until she kisses him, quick and sharp. Over before he realizes what’s happened. 

“Good luck,” she explains to a question he never voiced, and he nods once dumbly, only moving when her hands on his shoulders nudge him towards the road. 

There’s still a sort of discomfort in standing alone and bared in the middle of the road. So again, the only solution is to lay down and let his limbs deflate. The dirt is cold against his shoulder and back, so he hangs on to the warmth still radiating from his lips and wills himself to be patient. 

He lies there what feels like too long a time, andhas to catch himself from drifting to sleep. Eventually the monotony of watching shapes flit across his closed eyelids comes to an end when heavy footfalls thud against the packed dirt floor up ahead. 

Their victim this time is likely older than the girl from yesterday, which he hopes will result in them having more things for Emori and him to nick. Murphy remains deathly still, monitoring his own breath to keep it shallow and visibly nonexistent. 

Their target stills, and there’s a brief rustling sound that suggests to Murphy that he is indeed carrying something, potentially of some value to them. The man shoves his shoulder, apparently uncaring of the respect normally delivered to the dead. He snarls something, and for the first time Murphy regrets having never learned a word of Grounder. The patterns of light playing on the inside of his eyelids change as the man rises to his feet, he still has his eyes closed but he can imagine the man’s imposing figure and it’s enough to almost make him shrink away. 

Then he hears the soft shuffle of pine needles, and he knows Emori has made her move, probably allowing her steps to make just the slightest amount of noise so that he might know not to worry. 

Emori says something harsh and sharp in her native tongue, and there’s a rustling sound that suggests a struggle. Murphy opens his eyes just in time to see a burly trader reach for the knife at his belt, seemingly uncaring for the one being held to his throat. Murphy reacts with a sharp kick to the man’s shin, making him stumble back, and allowing Emori to pounce. Her knife catches him on the temple and blood gushes out and into his eye, blocking his vision. Emori brings her knee into his gut a moment later, winding him, and she takes advantage of his reactive hunched over position to bring the handle of her knife down on the back of his head. 

Both he and Emori take a moment to compose themselves after the fight. Neither of them are injured but it's the first time either of them could have been and they're both aware of it as their gazes fall on each other, double checking for injuries that aren't there. 

Emori recovers first, stepping over their victim’s body. Some of her hair has escaped and is now hanging in her face, the bloody knife is still clutched in her hand as she stands over a man twice her size, her eyes sharp pieces of glass as she begins to strip him of his belongings. Murphy’s heart is still racing, but he doesn't think it's on adrenaline anymore. 

“Here, take these,” she says, handing him three fur cloaks that had been tied around the man’s shoulders. “We can use them as blankets.” She also takes two knives from him, and a case that she doesn't even bother to open. “Let's go,” she says, and they dash away. 

“Are there close calls like that often?” He asks once they're a safe distance away, by the stream. Emori doesn't answer right away, which is disconcerting. He begins to wash off, turning away from her, but still keeping her in his periphery. She dips the dirtied knife into the water, turning it a churning pink for moment before it’s swept away. Afterwards she dries it with careful attention; he’s clean and dressed before she finishes. 

“Are you okay?” He asks as Emori gathers their things, gaze lingering on the markings of the newly acquired case. She hadn’t answered his earlier question, which to him indicated a positive. He doesn’t see how it warrants the kind of reaction she’s giving, after all he doesn’t mind danger so long as they both come out of it unscathed. 

“I’m fine, John,” she says, but he’s not so dense as to believe her. Maybe he should leave it alone, that would be the diplomatic thing, no doubt there are boundaries she doesn’t want crossed, but he’s not a diplomatic person. 

“No, what’s wrong?” He presses, with as much tact as he can manage. Emori seems surprised at his insistence, but quickly acclimates, her face calm and analysing again. Her strides seem longer though, like she wants to place herself just a little bit ahead of him, he remains diligent in keeping up. 

“Nothing is wrong,” she insists, “it just so happens that the man we stole from is a Wastelander.” 

Murphy furrows his brow, the man hadn’t looked much like a desert-dweller, having lacked the heavy layers and face coverings, but maybe he had just forgone them in the forest. 

“So?” 

“They are not good people,” Emori enunciates as they traverse a particularly rocky outcrop, but it doesn’t make anything clearer to him. He can count on one hand the number of genuinely good people in the world. Like everyone else, they're the rule, not the exception.

“Well then it’s a good thing we screwed him over,” he says, smiles in an attempt to lighten Emori’s mood, but she isn’t looking at him, focused too much on securing her footing. “Unless you think he’ll come after us?” 

“He might,” Emori answers, “it would be humiliating to return to his people empty handed. Especially bested at something they consider their specialty.” 

Her words spark a memory. Emori telling him her brother was killed by Wastelanders, her voice flat and dry. He knows now that the story was constructed, but it was one of Emori’s lies, so it was likely built on a foundation of truth. 

“What did they do?”

This time there’s no reaction to the question, no halting or bristling, and again no immediate answer. The cave is in view before she speaks again, at which point he figures that he’s pissed her off and she’s giving him the cold shoulder. 

“I was raised by Wastelanders.” 

Emori holds a concentrated anger in the center of her chest, he watches it expand as she speaks. 

“They take in people like me, crying infants left to be vulture food, make us do the work too dangerous or menial for them and call it charity. Tell us we should be grateful after putting a knife to our skin.” 

Emori pushes her way into the cave, but Murphy finds his feet stuck in his boots in the dirt outside. It takes more effort than it should to move his feet forward. 

“We should’ve killed that guy,” Murphy says, finally following her into the cave. 

“I didn’t know him,” Emori answers, a twisted sort of explanation. He understands the fuel a personal grudge could lend, but he also doesn’t quite see a problem in cutting out someone who works in the system that harmed you. “But if we ever run into Baylis or Naru…” 

Her face tightens as she says those names, spits them out like there’s venom in her mouth, and he feels himself get stuck again. 

“Who are they?” he asks, dark enough to match her poison. He’s not a curious person, not one to seek out knowledge, but he wants to understand the murk in Emori’s eyes, it seems vital. 

She looks at him with pinched lips, sizing him up. People have been doing that his whole life and he can’t think of a single time when he wasn’t underestimated. When she starts talking he realizes she was evaluating him for a different kind of worthiness. 

“They ran a gang,” she starts, “a group of scavengers, people too unskilled or slow to become warriors. But still vicious enough to serve their people. They all thought it made them powerful, important. But the only people they were stronger than were scared kids who killed for them.” 

He wonders at the use of the past tense. If they’re dead, or just dead to her. 

“I don’t believe they’re stronger than you,” he says. She’s here after all, which means she’s persevered. And he’s felt her grip before, against his collarbone, and he wouldn’t have been able to move then, even if there hadn’t been a knife in her fist. 

“If I was stronger I would’ve killed them when I had the chance, I would’ve figured out how to get away with it.”

She might be right about that, but he doesn’t think strength and weakness are as straightforward as she wants them to be. 

“Nothing wrong with running away,” he says, what he would have given to be able to run anywhere on the Ark. “Not if it’s the smart thing, not if it helps you survive.”

The corners of her mouth turn up, like a smile seen in the reflection of cloudy water, a distortion of something real. 

“Otan used to say just being alive was enough to spite them.” She shakes her head. “He probably would’ve resigned himself to it if we stayed, but I always hated begging. It made me feel small.” 

She drops the case with a heavy thunk, it falls on its side, forming a perfect rectangle in the dirt. But Emori doesn’t move to open it. 

“At least it taught us how to survive,” she says. She stares at the case for a held moment, the carvings on it sharp and mean. She brings her heal down onto the latch like a viper strike, attacking and defensive all at once. 

“They didn’t teach you shit,” Murphy counters, watching her kick away broken pieces of the mechanism. “You learned that all on your own. Don’t give credit where it isn’t due.”

Maybe that comes across more angry than he had intended, but he is angry. Not at her of course, but all these people who dared to hurt her. It spills out, the indignation, the dark churning of his blood. It’s only at Emori’s startled expression that he realizes the only time he’s felt this way before is for himself. Bitter, tumbling anger is a familiar pump in his heart, but for another person? He wouldn’t have thought it possible. 

From the looks of it Emori hadn’t either. She nods, a miniscule movement, her lips falling closed. He moves, to shake away the sudden stiffness wrapped around his bones, dumping the furs where they had been sleeping the past few nights, then turning back to Emori as she flips the lid of the case. 

It’s stuffed full, and he immediately reaches for the drawstring bags, finding the first to be filled with a similar sort of grain to the one they got from Cress, and the second to contain jerky of some unknown animal. 

He moves to show Emori, but finds her attention otherwise occupied. 

There’s tech in the case, a bundle of wires that Emori is picking apart, as well as flat pieces of machinery that look like the guts of a computer and a random assortment of screws, surprisingly void of rust. 

“Anything useful?” he asks, squatting down next to her. Everything in the case is almost as clean as the stuff in Becca’s house. Even the Ark, what was once considered man’s greatest feat of engineering, had fallen victim to widespread disrepair and degrade. How this stuff survived armageddon and remained in such good shape is something of a mystery. 

“Not if I don’t have ALIE as a buyer,” Emori grumbles, holding up one of the boards to catch the light. 

“Well, who was the guy gonna trade with?” Murphy asks, thinking that they might be able to intercept the deal. Emori pauses, tilting her head and the board as she thinks. 

“I don’t know. Skaikru, maybe. The people in the market for tech are very limited.” She sets down the computer piece with a bit of hesitance. 

“If no one wants it then why is it what you deal in?” 

Emori sinks further down onto her knees, still surveying the odd collection of technological bits. “Some people want it,” she clarifies, “just very few. And the number willing to work as middlemen is even fewer. No competition means I get the best deals.” 

He nods, it’s sound business sense, if robbery counts as business. What doesn’t make sense is why grounders think the devil lives in a bunch of stripped wires. He’s always thought the whole swords and spears thing was a bit ridiculous. 

“It’s seen as unholy,” Emori explains when he asks. “Forbidden and dangerous. Luckily I’ve been those things all my life, so it doesn’t matter much to me. I don’t exactly fear the wrath of the Commanders.”

She stands up then and inspects the food bags that he had been first to investigate. “I kind of like it, tech” she admits after a moment, quietly, like her having an interest is some sort of secret, not to be heard by ears outside the cave. “It makes me feel better than the rest of them, when I figure it out and they’re all still shying away in fear.” 

“It’s ‘cause you are better than the rest of them,” he says, tearing one of the jerky pieces and offering her half. “They’re all torture-happy homicidal maniacs, the dumb Commander included.”

Emori’s eyes narrow, in either consideration or doubt. “How do you know anything about the Commander?” 

“She showed up wanting to kill a guy I knew.” He shrugs. “Never really knew all the details.” He doesn’t miss Finn exactly, the guy had been sanctimonious at the best of times, but he had never treated Murphy like a waste of breath, which is more than can be said for a lot of people. Sure, he fucked up pretty bad, but he still deserved to get floated the old-fashioned way instead of having his girlfriend stick a knife in his gut. At least in Murphy’s opinion, as little as its worth. 

“Then he’s dead now,” Emori remarks, without seeking confirmation. Murphy nods. Finn Collins was an unlucky bastard who cared too much in the wrong way. He wasn’t cut out for life on Earth, or the Ark for that matter. 

He tells Emori about him, about the massacre, about the demand for his death. About the way Raven had looked at him with eyes as unfeeling as tar and told him to drop his gun. Finn’s death by Clarke’s hand seems a meager slight after remembering that. 

The story takes longer to tell than he thought it would—and he’s no wordsmith—but Emori stays clearly focused on him throughout it. He finishes with a meager shrug of his shoulders. Endings have never been his thing. He takes a bite of the jerky.

Emori is contemplative for a moment. It’s a complicated story to understand, one he himself had never gotten a full picture of. His head spins trying to figure out what exactly his relationship with the rest of the kids who’d gotten dumped onto Earth is. He doubts it matters now, they all probably ended up dying in that mountain. It had been a fool’s journey from the start. 

“I wonder what that’s like, having friends. People who would go outstanding lengths to make sure you‘re safe.” Emori eats the jerky in one mighty bite, as if to cleanse her palate of such sentimental words. 

“We’re friends,” he says, remembering Emori’s promise to protect him, recognizing the twist in his gut at the thought of her hurt. 

Emori blinks. “I thought we were more than friends.” 

His jaw stutters open, because she’s right, obviously. He likes her a hell of a lot more than anyone else, sentiment has just never been his strong suit. “Yeah,” he’s quick to agree. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Emori nods, then leans forward to kiss him, swift and strong, to prove the point. 

She rises then to inspect the furs he’d dumped to the side, leaving him crouching by the case, suddenly needing to catch his breath. 

“I-I’ll get some wood for the fire,” he announces, grateful for a moment to stretch his legs and clear his head. 

When he gets back, Emori has already started a fire from the leftover kindling from the night previous. The furs have been rearranged too, resembling, if not a bed, than at least a comfortable pile of blankets. He would not have called himself tired a moment ago, but they do look remarkably appealing. 

He swallows a yawn, and drops the fuel he’s collected a safe distance away from the fire. Emori is unlacing her boots, there’s no need to leave the cave for the remainder of the day, and he’s quick to follow her lead. 

“Are you tired?” Emori asks, noticing the way he’s stretching back and relaxing his limbs. He shrugs. He is, of course, but he’s also still hungry, and there’s a squirrel they never got around to eating. “You are,” Emori drawls, smirking for some reason. 

“What can I say, playing dead all day can really wear a guy out.” 

“I would hardly call it all day. And this after you convinced me to get up late.” 

“Well I’m a good convincer,” he says, his eyes falling to her lips, remembering the places she had pressed them this morning. Emori scoffs, and begins preparing the squirrel to cook. If it’s possible the animal seems to have even less meat on it than the rabbit. 

He closes his eyes to the popping of the fire and the orange light imprinted under his eyelids. Twice he stirs himself from the edge of sleep, to be met by Emori’s knowingly raised eyebrow. After that he focuses on the subtle sway of Emori’s body as she works around the fire. Her hair is carefully tucked away from the flames, but small dark wisps escape around her ears, like little smoke tendrils. The line of her shoulders is more relaxed now than it is during the day, it makes the forward tilt of her head towards the fire softer, her eyes bright despite the fatigue. 

They manage to burn the squirrel. He doesn’t care. When they both agree to surrender to sleep they lie atop the furs. They’re warm enough without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took longer than expected, but you know, it be like that sometimes. You might have noticed that i've changed the story's summary because the quote in it was originally going to be in this chapter but ended up being cut, lmao. It now features a quote from chapter two. As a brief note, i'm a rare fan who doesn't lead a Finn bashing lifestyle ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Thanks for reading guys, it means a lot! :)


	6. Comforting

Murphy’s not used to soft things. He thinks that’s why the furs pressed up against his cheek wake him at such an early hour. Any variation of the hard ground that he’s called a bed for however long he’s been on Earth is familiar at least, comfort isn’t. It bears a quality of being too good to be true, like at any moment the animals who had once worn these coats might reemerge to claw and bite and send him back to his rightful place. But for now its nice. 

Emori exhales against the back of his neck, making the skin there tingle, the small hairs rise up. It’s a powerful sensation, one he feels in every corner of his body, walking a thin line between arousal and discomfort. He’d move away if he thought he’d be able to do so without waking her, but as it is there’s no hope of him falling back asleep. He curls his grip into the pelt and keeps still, tries to get his body to relax, to be more restful. It takes a while, but the pinch in the center of his chest loosens, and he enjoys the next half hour-ish of ease. 

Sometime later, Emori wakes quickly, like there’s a buzz under her skin. She braces herself on his shoulder as she sits up, as if she knows he’s already awake. 

“Come on,” she says, as he rolls onto his back, not without a bit of groggy annoyance. “We can’t be wasting time today.” 

He sits up with a huff, reaching for his shoes. 

“I’ve been awake,” he tells her as she flits about the cave. It doesn’t sound like it though, his voice garbled in the back of his throat. Emori, on the other hand, streamlines her energy into a total focus, one that he can’t mimic, at least not this early in the morning. She hums non-committedly from her spot next to the fire, the sound clear. He rolls to his feet and then stands next to her for a moment, watches as she clears away some of the ash. 

He shifts through their things until he finds their canteen, taking a deep swig to clear the morning thickness in his throat. When he hands it to Emori her fingers stain it with gray matter. She takes only a brief sip before stopping, shaking the container to emphasize the absence of any sloshing. 

“Guess we’ll need a refill,” he says, to which Emori only raises her eyebrows. 

They agree to split the last of the stolen jerky as breakfast, but the salt seeps into the corners of his mouth and only makes him more thirsty. The way Emori smacks her lips together suggests the same. 

They set out to the stream before going to check the traps, but the dry ache in their throats does little to limit the conversation. A desert wasn’t able to shut him up, of course this wouldn’t either. 

“When’s it going to rain?” He asks. It’s been months since he’s seen the water that falls from the sky or felt it pounding on his shoulders. Nature always managed to be better, making the shower in the Sky Box that had good water pressure seem like a dribble in comparison. It’s been windy and sunny and cloudy since he’s gotten out of the bunker but he hasn’t seen any rain yet. 

“When the clouds get too full,” Emori says, like she thinks that’s an answer. “I don’t know John,” she continues when she hears his huff, “Sometimes you can see it in the sky or feel the dampness in the air, but I can’t see the future.” 

She stops for a moment, stooping down to retie her laces. The way she had said ‘future’ tells him that her timing was rather purposeful, but he doesn’t know what it means so he watches her card the shoelace between her ring and pinkie finger, creating two loops with one hand like a master seamstress. He wonders what her stitches are like. His eyes inspect a tight seam on her bicep.

“Pretty sure seeing the future would take the fun out of everything,” he says when she stands. “It would just be boring if I knew what was gonna happen next.”

“You’d be safer, though,” Emori remarks, and maybe she has a point, but being sheltered would be uncomfortable too. 

“But where’s the fun in that?” he says. They start walking again, Emori’s first stride longer than normal, like she’s stepping over a puddle, something unpleasant. It almost explains the look of concentration on her face, two contrasting ideas pulling at the corners of her mouth. In the end the sly smile wins out. “I guess you’re right,” she says, meeting his eyes. The smile makes the deviance there sparkle.

It’s only a little farther to the stream where they had found the berries, but it’s almost unrecognizable from when they were there last. The water only trickles, evidence of a riverbed replaced by mud laced with water lines and sunken pebbles, all evidence of the dry week they've been having. 

“It's all muddy,” Murphy remarks splashing some of the water and leaving his hands dirtier than they’d before he’d let the water run over them. Emori frowns, turning the canteen in her hand. 

“We’ll have to head back to the main river,” she says, not sounding happy about it. He isn’t either; it’s a bit of a trek, which will carve out a fair amount of time from their day. But of course they can’t go without water. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, smearing the dirt off his hand and onto his already dirty boot. 

Emori explains as she takes the lead that they aren’t heading to the place where they had crossed from the lagoon. Instead they’ll walk somewhere where the water isn’t as deep and the bank not too steep. 

“I think I know a place that won’t be too populated,” Emori continues. “It’s rockier so the water is still clear, even if it is mostly still, but there aren’t any fish so there probably won’t be any people.”

He nods in understanding. The lengths Emori goes to ensure they avoid other people is meticulous, he wonders how much experience is needed to gain that knowledge. Or how much experience makes it necessary. He doesn’t ask, mostly because he doesn’t think he’ll like the answer. 

It’s a shorter walk to get there than he thought, and mostly downhill, an opposite direction than the one they’ve taken the past couple of days. The foliage along the path they’re treading seems denser, odd considering they’re supposed to be getting closer to the water. Emori says that it’s because this area is less populated. It seems louder for it, the birds more free in their chirping and the bugs more intense in their murmurs.

The treeline breaks suddenly. Here, the river is something of a small delta, breaking off in different places as it carves through solid rock and hard soil before remerging just a little further down. The water pools in several places, and in others flows through cracks small enough to step over. 

They stop to drink and stretch their legs. The water is marginally warmer here, probably a factor of it being relatively shallow, and his arms don’t feel numb when he uses it to wash them. 

“Bathing probably isn’t a bad idea, while we’re here,” Emori observes, but it just confuses him. 

“I’m going to be covered in blood and dirt in a couple hours,” he says, “What’s the point?” 

“Well, I’m not going to be,” Emori says, already tugging off her shoes. He huffs at the clear challenge, stubbornness colliding with the desire to go along with whatever Emori wants. The stubbornness melts almost instantly when Emori raises her eyebrows at him, like it's expected that he's to join and the fact that he hasn't yet is a personal failing on his part. 

He holds out for another moment before Emori starts wiggling out of her pants, unashamed about the curve of her hips or the length of her legs. And sitting around watching while a girl strips would be a new level of dickishness, even for him, so he shrugs out of his jacket and pulls off his shirt, grumbling the whole time. When he dares to glance over at Emori, after hearing her splash into the water, her smile is triumphant. 

She swims short laps back and forth from one edge of the rock pool to the other, dunking her head under every so often as well, for periods of time he would consider worrying. But she reemerges each time, water clinging to her eyelashes, and her head tilted back from the added weight of her wet hair. 

Murphy slides into the water, half-suspecting it to be a comfortable temperature based on Emori’s casual attitude. Instead, his nerves attempt to burrow under his skin. Somehow it’s worse than the numbing water they’d had to wade through, it’s just a hair warmer, enough to keep him perpetually aware of every place the water is touching his bare skin. 

“It helps if you move around,” Emori says, noticing his shivering, and obviously amused by it. She kicks in a little circle to demonstrate. The pool is shallow enough to stand in, but he needs to float a little bit if he doesn’t want to scrape up his bare feet along the jagged bottom. So he kicks a little bit like Emori had, straining his neck up to keep it above water, feeling a bit like toddler who falls on their ass every time they try to stand up.

He puts his feet down, unwilling to embarrass himself. 

“You’re overthinking it,” Emori says. 

“I can get myself clean right here, thanks,” he snaps back. He scrubs his arms in an facade of cleaning them, but all it’s only really an attempt to warm himself.

Emori’s eyes fall a little. Good. This was her stupid idea. 

“No, John,” she says softly, reaching out to him, only her thumbs sticking out of the water. He hesitates, and he can see the moment when Emori decides to retract the offer. He takes her hands before she can. 

“You’re freezing,” she says, sounding surprised and out of breath. 

“No shit.” 

She laughs, moving back through the water, tugging him along. Her hands around his wrists are warm though, warmer than seems possible. It’s that desert blood. Her grip tightens, like she knows he’s thinking about her touch. 

“See?” she says, soft like the water. “You’re just overthinking it.” 

Maybe he was. Although he still thinks Emori holding his weight is more responsible for keeping him afloat than any of the kicking he’s doing. 

And it’s cold, but it also kind of feels nice, rejuvenating. Not that he’s going to tell Emori, her presence is the only thing making it bearable. 

She lets go slowly, giving him time to adjust to moving without her. She stands up, and he takes a few uncertain strokes by himself. He moves forward, not under, and he feels lighter when he stands up, right before he would’ve bumped into Emori. 

She smiles a little, with him in her space, taking the time to grip his wrist quickly in reassurance. He’s going to kiss her when she ducks under the water again. 

He has no real desire to submerge himself, but he can take a hint, the little bubbles on the surface mocking enough, so he bends his knees, the water on his shoulders and face a shock of cold all over again. Underwater, he shakes his head once, runs his fingers through his hair. It sticks out like it would with static, but feels even lighter somehow, pleasant instead of alarming on his scalp. When he straightens the sun is warm on his face. 

He pushes his hair back from where it’s stuck to his forehead and blinks the water from his eyes to see Emori’s vague shape underwater. The mass of her dark hair, swirling and free, and the stretch of her limbs, no longer straight, if they ever were, but bowed and arched by the water. 

She pokes his leg, just below his knee, then manages to open her eyes underwater and look up at him. He’s probably a blurry mess through the sting of the water, but she smiles anyway. 

Emori’s not even out of breath when she emerges, but her face is clearer, lacking dirt, more evenly toned. The tattoo, round and black, sits in stark contrast. She wipes some of the water from her face and it still surprises him that it doesn’t wash away. 

“Why did you get that?” he asks, with a point to his own cheek. Emori blinks, thinking for a moment, wringing out some of the water from her hair. 

“Because I thought it would look nice,” she says. “Look normal.” She turns her back to him them, drifting over to where the pool slopes up naturally.

A joke is on the tip of his tongue, a dig about tattoos on the Ark being illegal like everything else, but it falls to pieces in his mouth. Something about the way her shoulder blades press together tells him it wouldn’t be funny. 

He’s just gotten used to the water, but Emori seems ready to get out, taking careful steps on the balls of her feet over the slippery rock. He watches the arches of her feet as she walks, sees them disappear as they step back into her pants. 

“It does look nice,” he says, and Emori turns to glance at him over her shoulder. It’s only then that he realizes enough time had passed to make the comment awkward. “Your tattoo,” he specifies, “I think it looks nice.” 

Emori doesn’t say anything for a held breath, and the cold begins to seep into his skin again. He doesn’t get out yet though, waiting for Emori to pass judgement. 

“I think so too.” 

She turns her back to him again, doing her best to dry her hair, fashioning it into a sort of bun on the top of her head, caught in the net of her bandana. His eyes fall to her bare shoulders. A single curl of short black hair rests at the nape of her neck. It’s covered by the neckline of her shirt when she slips it back on. 

Far more carelessly than Emori, he hoists himself out of the water, trying to brush the cold off his skin and the wet out of his hair. He waits to put his shoes back on, not wanting to have wet socks, but Emori’s already situated. 

“Wasn’t that worth it?” Emori asks, and logically it wasn’t, but he finds himself agreeing with her anyway. 

“Sure.” 

“People pleaser,” she responds, with a teasing squint of her eyes. He’d roll his eyes if she weren’t right, so he smirks instead and finishes dressing. 

“We back on schedule?” He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they make their way back into the woods. 

“On what?” she asks, glancing up at him. He should have known Emori was too much of a free spirit. 

“A schedule,” he repeats, “It’s like a plan for your day.”

“Why would you plan your day?” Emori asks, “What if something unexpected happened? You’d need to adapt.” 

She’s right of course, on Earth nothing stays the same for long. And he’s adaptable like her, but he doesn’t like the thought of that right now. With Emori, constant change doesn’t seem quite necessary. 

“Forget it,” he says, “it’s just a turn of phrase.”

“I like a good plan,” Emori says, responding to the brusqueness in his voice. “We can make one later, if you like.” 

Really, it’s not that important to him, but it seems to have sparked Emori’s attention. 

“Only if there’s more scheming involved,” he says, because he thinks it’ll make Emori laugh. She does. 

“It would be boring otherwise.” 

Their walk to the traps isn’t as leisurely as it has been. Sometimes the sun shines warmly, but the days are still short, and they both feel the time crunch as the sun hangs directly overhead. With focus they make the walk back in good time, only to find all the traps empty. Two of them have been sprung though, making it all the more frustrating. 

“Now what?” he asks as he resets a trap with frustrated movements. 

“Same as we’ve done,” Emori says, “the blood makes it more convincing, but it’s not necessary.” Emori’s assured in her words, but even that’s not enough to keep him from being skeptical. 

“Really? You see a guy just passed out in the middle of the road and you don’t knife him first?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t.” 

“Really?” he asks. Emori had always come off as just on the other side of ruthless to him. She is too world-weary not to take basic measures to protect herself. She’d told him a story where she should have learned that lesson.

“I only kill people if I need to.”

By his measure, that’s not any sort of answer. He had needed to kill Miles and Connor, but then again he hadn’t needed to. Not in the same way that Emori had needed to kill Gideon, at least. 

“No offense, but all the grounders I’ve met seem pretty blood-thirsty.” 

“They are,” Emori agrees. “But they still have some moral codes. Blood must have blood; if you haven’t taken any from them, there’s no need for them to take any from you.” 

The last thing he really wants to do is bet his survival on a grounder’s sense of right and wrong. He finishes setting the traps, about to suggest that they just wait for some game when his eyes catch with Emori’s. He’s been betting his survival on a grounder for days now, he realizes, and he’s not going to lose by betting against her now. 

“Well, you keep that knife sharp,” he says, indicating that she should lead the way to the road. Emori nods, tight and brief, and then leads them through the woods. 

She lets her hair down as they walk, still damp and tangled, a mess as it swings against her lower back. But the way it frames her face is so delicate. 

The part of the road Emori has picked out is longer and wider than anywhere they’ve been yet, probably closer to that capital she had talked about, but still far enough away that he can’t see or hear any sign of it. 

“Okay,” he says as Emori searches for the best place to tuck herself away. He tugs off his shirt, comfortable enough without it at this point, even without the blood, and packs it away. “I’ll see you in a bit.” 

“Wait,” she says, springing up from her crouch, hesitating for a moment as before she stands on her tiptoes, tugging on the ends of his hair to disrupt the way it lies on his scalp, “Now you look more like yourself.” 

He doubts that’s the priority of someone planning on stealing the clothes off his body, but Emori’s so cute and earnest when she says it that his lips twitch up as he leans down to kiss her. 

“See you in a bit,” he repeats, squeezing her shoulder before moving to the road, trying not to stumble through the underbrush. 

It’s not comfortable on the dirt floor, but he’s not accustomed to comfort, doesn’t expect it, even when the memory of Emori tucked next to him on the soft furs from this morning suggests that it might become a more common thing. Not something to shy away from. He slows his breathing, trying to reach that content and soft place again. 

The footsteps wake him. Not from a sleep, but a sort of spiraling daze. He doesn’t move, but his muscles tense, ready to run or strike out if need be. There are frustrated grumblings in grounder language, and then a prodding kick to his gut. It takes a lot of concentration to swallow the winded cough the action almost rips out of him, but he let’s the motion move him, and wishes Emori would hurry it up. 

Then she’s there, her voice haughty and threatening, and he’s only just opened his eyes when she lashes out with her knife. She draws blood when she knocks him unconscious, a nasty scrape at the nape of his neck. 

The man has two bags, one on his back and the other on his shoulder that they quickly divest him of. Emori is rummaging through his pockets when she freezes. 

“Run,” she says in a high whisper, and for a confused moment he thinks that their victim has woken up, but then he hears it too, heavy bootstomps and the creaky wheel of a cart, from further up the road. He scrambles up and follows Emori in a dash, heading for the curve in the road that will give them some cover and time to make an escape. 

Shit. There’s a yell behind them, and a thump like something heavy has been dropped, and Murphy curses, hearing the man come in pursuit. 

They make the bend in the road without any projectiles getting thrown at them, which he’ll take as a good sign. Emori grabs his wrist and they maneuver off the road and back into the denser woods, trying to step quietly but quickly. Emori tosses the bags further ahead, not wanting to be slowed by the weight. A moment later they hear their pursuer on the road, his stride slowing. Murphy can taste his heartbeat in his mouth as they crouch down, trying to hide in the bushes and shrubs. He fears it won’t be enough. He gestures as if to ask for one of Emori’s knives, but she turns her hard eyes to him instead. 

“Why are you so white?” She hisses, and if they had the time he’d point out that she’s the one who insists on him showing so much skin, but he doesn’t because in the next moment, Emori practically throws herself on top of him. He bites his own tongue in an effort to restrain a surprised oof. Her plan, if you could call it that, is clear when a pair of boots becomes visible through the leaves just to the right of his face. Her clothes are close to camouflage among the shrubs, while his skin shines out like a beacon. She’s covering him in an attempt to hide them both. 

It might be the only thing saving them, too. Emori’s face is pressed to the side of his, her hair a veil. He feels her breath against his ear, silent, yet coming in rapid bursts. He squeezes her wrist where she’s using it to brace herself, and he can’t meet her eyes from this angle, but he hopes she takes some comfort in it, hopes she can feel his gratitude. 

He thinks she presses a kiss next to his ear, but he can’t be certain, the pressure of her weight on one side of his chest competes with his thudding heart on the other, overwhelming the light touch. 

The boots pause at a spot barely two yards away from his knee, and his blood rushes in his veins, insistent, like it needs to remind him he’s alive. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrates on how he can feel Emori’s thrumming pulse when they’re pressed this close instead of the possibility that their footprints might be visible on the dirt path and lead to their discovery any second. 

There’s a sudden rustling further down the road, most likely just an animal, but it’s enough to divert the attention of the man chasing them and change the direction of his pursuit. His footsteps quiet as he moves further away, and Murphy finally allows himself to exhale, his breath making Emori’s hair flutter. 

She doesn’t move off him yet, overly cautious for another collection of minutes before his hands find her waist and gently press her into a sitting position that stops her from crushing him and still ensures they’re mostly covered by the bushes. 

Emori looks winded sitting atop his knees, her mouth slightly open catching deep breaths, and her eyes wide. But they’re also shining. The victorious excitement slowly edging away the throat-clenching fear. Even so, his heart doesn’t once stop racing. 

“Well that was lucky,” he whispers with an alleviating little laugh, his hands squeezing where they’re still gripping her waist. Light filters through the leaves and branches, but it’s a sort of dark green light, not truly shining, like it wants to continue to shelter them from what is just outside. Emori’s eyes are dilated anyway. She smiles too, her eyes lighting up even more when they meet his. She lets out a soft little huff of a laugh, then surges forward to press her lips to his, deep and sinking into him. 

“Yeah,” she agrees against his mouth, the sound deep in her throat and almost unintelligible. 

Her hand migrates to his shoulder, his still firmly on her waist, as she slants their mouths together again, pushing him down again, forceful and gentle all at once. The way her weight presses into him is different now, still insistent, but not crushing. It has a new purpose. As if that weren’t obvious by the how Emori scrapes her teeth against his lip, startling a gasp out of him. 

Emori makes a pleased sound against his skin, and he takes it as a challenge, nipping at her mouth in turn, his hands sliding lower to grasp her hips. She shifts a bit, and he can feel the sharp jut of her hip bones under his thumbs, even through the rough material of her pants. Emori’s own hand migrates to his collarbone, pressing into the divots of his skin, her fingertips outstretched to feel the rush of his heart. Her other hand comes lower, to his side where a collection of scars nearly wrap around his gut. The scar tissue has no feeling, but when the rough material of her glove runs across the edges where his pale skin clashes with still red lines, it makes his lips stutter. He remembers, suddenly, the scar on her abdomen, and the desire to see it again, to trace it with his mouth, wells up inside him. 

He settles for licking into her mouth, the rush of power on her tongue tastes the same as on his own. Heightened as they share it. He presses one hand into her lower back, keeps the other firm on her waist. There’s a slope to her back that he hasn’t been able to categorize till now, the bony line of her spine like a mountain ridge. 

Emori’s hand moves up his sternum, leaving his nerves trembling. Her fingers twitch when they stroke beneath his chin, and she breaks away for a moment, just as she cups his face in her hand. The heat of her palm is searing, imprinting into his skin. He tilts his chin up to follow her mouth, only just catching himself. He doesn’t want to stop. 

“John,” she says, her eyes closed. He tightens his grip at her waist for some measure of control, wishing for a moment that he was like her and could hold it on the edge of a knife. Her thumb presses hard against his cheekbone, just for a moment, like she’s checking he’s really there. 

“I’m right here,” he says, so only she can hear. And the words have barely left his mouth when her eyes open, just the slightest bit, and she kisses him again, right where her thumb had been. Kisses land on his jaw and by his ear, hot and wet and settling comfortably under his skin. He gasps against her shoulder, and clutches his arms around her middle in a strong embrace so she won’t notice how she’s making his hands tremble. 

Her lips travel to the side of his neck, only just touching his skin, leaving him straining. Maybe she notices the way he’s aching to be closer to her, because there’s more pressure, urging and warm. His hands run up her sides, his whole body alight from some emotion that’s pressing on the insides of his skin.

He says her name without clear purpose, questions he’s too afraid to ask rising and sinking in his mind like the crest of a wave or the rhythm of a heartbeat. But it’s nice to say anyway, a way to remind himself she’s real too. Even when she’s never been more physical, both soft and hard in his hands. 

He curls his hands under the hem of her shirt, it’s tight to her skin, and there’s only enough room for the tops of his fingers to run along supple skin of her stomach. He’s working up the courage to ask if she’d take it off when a loud knocking sound echos overhead. 

They both freeze, and turn together to look up at the woodpecker two trees over determined to build a home. Emori exhales in relief, pressing her forehead into his shoulder, he curls his hand against her neck. 

Laughter bubbles in his gut, but he doesn’t let it out until she does. Her cheeks are still flushed from the kissing, which means his definitely are, but it looks like it’s from the laughter. For a moment it’s as if she’s carefree, laughing and flushed and tucked under his arm. 

“You’re really beautiful,” he says, because that’s what he was thinking, all day really. Emori trades in her laugh for a curious look, not unbelieving, but something close to it. 

He was going to kiss her again, but she says, “Let’s go,” and extracts herself from his arms. He tries not to be too disappointed about it when Emori points out that their pursuer will likely double back when he can’t find them, but he’s still a bit wired. His eyes don’t leave her as she collects the bags. There are at least three leaves in her recently washed hair, he picks them out dutifully when she comes to stand next to him, and hands over the two bags as she shoulders their own pack. 

“We just washed up and you’re already getting dirty again,” he says, flicking the leaves back to the ground. Emori flashes him her coy smile. 

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.” 

“I definitely didn’t,” he agrees with a brief chuckle, still mostly distracted by the pink flush lying underneath her skin. 

“Let’s go,” she says, quieter now, tugging once at the end of his sleeve. He’d hold her hand if his weren’t already full. 

There’s a chill in the air now, as evening approaches, and he sort of wished that he had put his shirt back on, but he can manage until they get back to the cave. It doesn’t feel like such a long walk, maybe because he’s getting more accustomed to the terrain, or maybe because of Emori’s easy reassurance at his side. 

The cave is as they left it, but walking back into it now doesn’t suggest a poor life on the run. It doesn’t seem so empty as when they left. Their belongings that this morning had seemed haphazardly scattered now seem aptly arranged, like there’s actually some order about it. Like it’s a proper place to come back to. Homey his heart says, even as his mind scoffs at the idea. It’s still just a cave. 

“Should we see what we’ve got?” he asks, after Emori tosses him his shirt back, which he slips back on gratefully. Unpacking the stolen bags reveals the first to contain food, jerky again and vegetables he doesn’t recognize, as well as some rope. The second has a few rags, but is mostly stuffed with a tightly folded length of canvas. 

“For a tent,” Emori remarks when they unfold it. He doesn’t think they’ll use if for that purpose, but for now they tuck it under the furs, to keep the damp soil out as they sleep. 

The pair of them go to collect more firewood after that, before it gets to dark. He catches Emori humming under a breath, an odd, stalling melody that isn’t song-like at all. He teases her about it until she starts singing so loud in retaliation a few birds call back. He’s still whistling mockingly as she starts the fire. 

“And here I thought you liked me,” she says, but with good humor. He stops anyway, a smile caught on his face. 

“It’s been established, yeah,” he says with fake exasperation as he divvies up the food. “I didn’t want to stop kissing you earlier,” he admits, before he can think about it too much. It just seems a good way to prove his point. 

Emori seems almost caught off guard, pausing in her chewing, thinking something through. “Me neither,” she finally says. There’s a held pause for a moment, where they both seem to be waiting for the other to say something. A pop from the fire startles the both of them and they turn back to their meal. They haven’t eaten since this morning, so the food is eaten quickly and he’s glad that they didn’t have to wait for any of it to cook. 

Murphy half expects Emori to venture into telling one of her abysmal ghost stories, now that it’s just them and the fire. Instead she goes to get the canteen that they had filled that morning, taking a sip before sitting next to him and offering it over. 

The water is cold and goes down easy.

“If you drink it all we’ll have to make the trip back to the river,” Emori says, leaning so their arms rest against each other. 

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he says making sure the cap on the canteen is secure before setting it down. “I liked it.” 

Her eyes shine with playful agreement. For a second he’s sure that she’s going to mention how he complained about the cold water or the swimming or how he generally made out that he hated the whole experience, but she just kisses him instead. 

It’s as if they had never stopped. He’s been overly mindful of her presence all day, having her close now just feels right. 

His hands hug her waist and she slips easily into his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. His nose runs over her cheek as their lips catch. It’s comfortable, even as his heart hammers in his chest. He had forgotten adrenaline could rush in different forms. 

Emori’s fingers scratch under the nape of his neck and his shoulders squirm despite his wishes. She runs her fingers there again, but lightly, with the pads of her fingers, not softly, because of her calluses, but with comfort. 

He hadn’t realized she had pulled away until he leans in to kiss her again. Lowers his hands to her hips and grips hard to tell her to stay close. She does. 

“It’s late,” she says, sometime later when there is warmth emanating from his chest and his shoulders feel light. Her forehead is resting against his, and looking at her where they’re this close is hard. She takes up his whole field of vision. He can tell when her eyes open though, there’s firelight in them. “We should sleep.” 

“Okay,” he agrees, still caught in her eyes. He wraps an arm around her back when they lay down, his fingers stroking the soft ends of her hair. There is calm, when he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little all over the place, but such is the nature of life on the run, right? It's one of my favorites of the fic so I hope you like it! Two thirds done now! :)


	7. Shifting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter with the smut btw. that being said murphy and emori are both dumb teenagers who never got very little formal education, so their sex habits aren't the safest, just putting that out there. Enjoy!

During the night he wakes twice. First because of Emori shifting and grumbling in her sleep, elbowing him in the gut in the process, and then again sometime later, when thunder rumbles overhead. It rains through most of the night, and the water drops falling unevenly from the mouth of the cave land with discordant plops in the puddles below, making sleep difficult. The air is damper than its been, and cooler too. At some point in the night Emori must wake to lay some of the furs on top of them, which helps enormously in making his sleep more restful; as does Emori, who he’s learning is something of a radiator.

When morning finally comes, he awakes because he can’t feel her next to him anymore. He groans a bit, because it’s still raining and the thought of trekking through the mud and damp at all today just makes him want to sleep more. Especially when it looks like it will rain all day, with the clouds overhead muting the sunlight. 

“You’re finally awake?” Peeling open one of his eyes lets him see Emori’s bare feet next to the fire as she stokes it back to strength. 

“I guess,” he says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Emori has already moved their things away from the cave entrance where they might get wet.

“Need help?” He asks to be polite even though it seems like there’s very little for him to do.

“Of course you slept through all the hard work,” she says, throwing him a look over her shoulder as she sets down the last trunk. He shrugs. 

“Well, I was thinking that with all this rain, there wouldn’t be much work to be done.” 

“I guess you’re right,” she says, coming to sit by him. “Everyone else will be avoiding the roads as much as us.”

“I guess we have a lazy day then,” he says, laying back and looking at the cave’s ceiling. They’ll need to ration their firewood for a while, with the rain anything they collect will be wet and won’t light. So the fire stays small, and the main light in the cave is the sort of damp blue glow that comes with rain. 

“A lazy day?” 

“You know,” he continues, turning to her, “a day where you don’t do any work, just...relax. I guess.” 

Emori seems almost confused by the concept, so he elaborates. 

“We’d get them sometimes on the Ark. My parents got one day off a week, and it wouldn’t happen often, but sometimes it would line up on the same day. That’d be a lazy day. My mom was tired all the time, she just wanted to stay in bed, but I was a kid, I couldn’t sit still. So my dad would entertain me. We'd play catch or soccer in the hallway outside our room. Have fun.” It’s weird thinking about that now, when he hasn’t in so long. Like his younger self is some other kid whose life he got to watch from far away. 

“That sounds nice,” Emori says, lying down next to him, her body curled towards his. Her voice catches a little, and he doesn't wanna rub the fact that his parents loved him in her face, so he exhales heavy towards the cave’s ceiling, and tries not to let the memory of what followed those lazy days ruin them. 

“It was,” he says, and rolls to face her. He half expects to see regret or some sort of sad jealousy cloud her face, but instead it's a more of a gentle curiosity. 

“When we were little Otan and I played the color game. I would say ‘green’ and he had to point out the green thing I was thinking of.” 

“Oh, I know that one,” he says, transported back to a classroom with sixteen other kids from his station, and a teacher trying to keep them wrangled. All those kids are probably dead now. “I spy with my little eye,” he says, his voice more dry and bored than he actually is. “Something brown.”

“Your version rhymes,” Emori laughs, then hums as she thinks. “The sticks from the fire?”

“No.”

“The pack?”

“Nope.”

“This fur?”

“Nah.” He’s remembering the fun in this, now. 

Emori huffs. “The dirt floor?”

“Wrong again.”

“The dirt on your nose?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Emori crosses the small distance between them and brushes his nose clean. She doesn’t move away afterwards. 

“I'll tell you if you're out of guesses,” he says, quiet, so even the fire is louder than him.

Emori squints at him and he thinks that she's going to press on, even if he's pretty sure she won't get it right, but then she caves with a sigh. “Fine. Tell me.”

“Your eyes,” he says with a victorious smile.

“Well I can't see my eyes!” She protests and he laughs. “You're a dirty cheat.”

“Look who's talking,” he responds and Emori glares at him, but it doesn't manage to make him feel chastised, not with the way the edge of her lips curl up. “What, you’re gonna give up? Not make me guess?” He props himself up on his elbow, raising one of his eyebrows in challenge. 

“It’s a child’s game, John,” Emori says, her tone suggesting that she’s circling back to her inability to understand lazy days, or understanding them in the only way she can: as something for children. 

“So what?” He argues, “How old are you?” 

“...I don’t know,” she responds, her mouth half open, “by the time I learned I should’ve been keeping track I had already lost count.” 

Murphy nods, his jaw quirked to the side. Keeping track of time on the Ark was hard with no seasons and the hours dictated by a circadian lighting system. But he could’ve told you how old he was down to the day after he got locked up. 

“Older than you, though,” she says, playing with the zipper of his jacket. 

He shrugs. “Probably. Still doesn't mean you're too old to play the game.” 

She shoots him a look that tells him she thinks he's ridiculous, but then she rolls her eyes and something in the way she holds herself settles down, so he wins in the end. 

For a long moment, she looks at some spot over his shoulder, thinking hard, but then her eyes snap back to meet his and she props herself up on her elbow too. A smile both victorious and mischievous stretching across her face. 

“I've spotted something purple,” she says, apparently not willing to stoop low enough to have the words rhyme. 

“Purple?” He repeats, there's very little purple to be found in the cave. None, probably. He begins to rise, thinking that the bracket they'd nicked off the girl in their first robbery might have had some purple beads, but Emori grabs his wrist before he even sits up all the way. 

“You—it’s visible from here,” she says, and he settles back down, wracking his brain. 

“Do you give up?” She asks minutes later when he’s yet to say anything, her mocking tone almost heavy-handed. 

“No,” he huffs, although he hasn't a clue about what she's thinking of. “A rock?” He tries lamely, but Emori only snickers and shakes her head. “You're just making this up,” he protests.

“I would never,” she says, twinkle in her eyes. And he won’t admit it, but he finds her sarcasm alone kind of attractive. He rolls his eyes to deflect attention off the smile her words bring to his face. And not that he’s humble by any measure, but he also knows when he's been duped, so he relents. 

“Okay what is it?” 

She grins and reaches forward, her finger tracing a spot right below his ear. His brow twitches, and he understands her little payback, picking a spot he can't see, but he doesn't quite get the purple part. Emori must see his confusion because she leans forward, her lips replacing her fingers on the spot in what is at first a soft kiss before she opens her mouth and sucks lightly against it. And he can't help but shiver, the same way he had yesterday, when she had done the same thing. Oh. 

Emori peels away, shifting back to look him in the eye. 

“I liked that,” he tells her, and he doesn't just mean the kissing. The game too, the playful light in her eyes, the fact that she’s so close. 

“Yeah?” Emori asks, eyes shining. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “kinda thought it was obvious.”

Emori hums into his mouth as she leans forward and kisses him proper. He presses just a little bit closer, so he doesn't have to stretch forward. 

He likes the closeness, the sort of gentle trust about it; before Emori, people only get close if they were trying to intimidate him. But Emori is comfortable in his space, likes his touch. That alone is enough to make him want to keep touching her. Not that it’s the only reason. 

Her lips feel softer today, probably from all the moisture in the air that came with the rain, and when he brings his hand up to cup her cheek, her skin does too. Rain has always been rather cleansing in his mind, both wild and needed. He’ll ask Emori what she thinks about it later.

For now she hums a little at the touch, leans into it as she tilts her head the other way. She doesn’t kiss him with the same ferocity as she had yesterday. The pace she sets is more leisurely, like she’s feeling a little lazy after all. Not that he minds. He wants to see Emori relaxed, unwound. 

She sighs, after a little while, and he thinks that maybe they’ll sleep some more until he catches sight of her eyes, wide awake. 

“Hey,” he says, for something to fill the space and catch his breath. Emori looks like she has something to say so he waits, not noticing he’s fiddling with the end of one of her long strands of hair till she slides her bandana off her head. 

“I like it when you touch me too,” she says, quiet enough that maybe he wasn’t meant to hear. Her grip on his shoulder tightens fractionally, and he likes how much strength her wide palm can press down. It makes his back feel looser, more at ease. Especially when it’s just her skin, her glove taken off so it wouldn’t catch when she fixed the fire. Her little little thumb tickles the underside of her jaw as her lips linger over his, pushing down the hood of his jacket. 

“Can I take this off?” He says, already half-shrugging out of his jacket, but waiting for her little laugh to toss it aside. 

“I’ve seen you in less.” 

She has. Not that he can’t say the same. An image from yesterday flashes in his eyes, water clinging to her shoulders, the slopes of her thighs. 

“Likewise,” he says, teasing, tilting his head to the side. Emori is still laughing when she kisses him again, quick, before they part because of her smile. She plays with the hair at the base of his skull, and he feels the sensation of it all the way down his spine, settling like heavy weight just above his tailbone. He blinks twice when he realizes he’s been staring at her lips. His hand runs down the length of her arm, the tired but strong fabric of her shirt scratching his palm. 

“Would you mind if I took this off?” she asks, fingers at her own collar. He shakes his head, shifting back slightly to give her room to work loose the ties that hold her odd assortment of clothes together. He slips off his own thin t-shirt in the meantime. Reciprocity, or something. 

He doesn’t want to be creepy and stare at her or anything, but it’s difficult when the slopes of her breasts rise and fall with each of her breaths and her hair is slung around one shoulder like the burdened branch of a tree swaying in the wind. 

“Shit, you’re beautiful,” he says, mostly under his breath, but she hears and slings her arms around his neck when she kisses him. 

It’s quick, hard before its soft, and then hard again, when her teeth drag against his lip. Her tongue in his mouth is almost familiar by now, but her hand on his waist and then running up his chest still isn't. Neither is her skin. Her back and arms are strong and tough, as if weathered by a sandstorm. He finds that scar on her abdomen, and runs his thumb over it. It’s bumpy, done with unprofessional stitches, and touching it makes Emori’s next exhale quiver. 

She moves more solidly in his lap, the weight of her distracting, and the heat of her too. Warmth presses out from her skin and her mouth, and probably other places he wants to learn about. 

“John,” she says against his cheek, the brush of her lips against his skin doing nothing to calm him down. Neither does her grip on his shoulder, the way her thumb keeps brushing his clavicle. “I want to have sex with you.” 

He feels his heartbeat thud in his fingertips. “Yeah,” he breathes against her skin, “Yeah, me too.” Emori smiles, bright enough for him to know she’s not nervous. He kisses her mouth, twice, quick. Then her cheek, her cute nose. 

“Okay,” she says and squeezes his shoulder once. She moves back just a bit so she can take off her pants, and he doesn’t feel so bad about looking this time. Around him she’s rather unabashed. He knows it’s not something lightly given from someone who has always taken great care in covering up. 

He feels a flush grow around his neck and inch up his cheeks as he works at getting his own pants off. Vulnerability isn’t his strong suit, but the most persistent parts of him keep urging him to be open with Emori, like he’s a wound that might start to heal if he were just exposed to fresh air. 

He stretches forward to kiss her again, and feels a knot in his throat loosen. He doesn’t think of safety as her tongue brushes against his, but danger ceases to cross his mind too. 

She moves forward to settle in his lap again, a familiar weight, but there’s so much of her skin now, singing and flushed against his own. His hands rest on her thighs.They’re softer than most of the other places he’s touched her, and he knew Emori wasn’t all rough edges, but now he feels it under his palms too. 

“Like this?” She asks, her hands running on his upper arms. 

“Sure,” he responds, still a bit dazed at the sight of her. The half-light reminds him of how she looked underwater, how the dark curl of her hair emphasized the stretches of her illuminated skin. Only now she rests slightly above him instead of the other way around. It allows him to see the way the light catches in her eyes, like little wells of joy. His hand on her back trembles. 

They fall into a new rhythm of kissing, slow and deep, like an underground current. She shifts deliberately against him, the movements of her hips arousing and promising, and keeping his nerves alight. 

Her two fingers trace nonsense on his cheek when her lips release his. Bidden by some unvoiced command, he keeps his eyes closed. As if in doing so Emori is allowed to keep secret whatever emotion is playing across her face, as if he can’t feel it in the way every muscle in his body strains toward her, guided by that delicate touch. 

“Can I?” Emori asks, her other hand between their bodies, resting on his lower stomach. 

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes slowly, enjoying the pink high on her cheeks, the shine of her lips. 

She goes slow, grip light—almost teasing—on the base of him, but the rest of her is so warm and wet and lovely. Her eyelashes flutter. She presses a kiss to his lips when she’s fully settled, and a breath stutters out of him, his lungs having forgotten he was holding it. 

His hands scramble over her back for purchase before resting on her hips to keep them both steady. She rocks with decisiveness against him, but her exhales are shaky against his ear, fueling the jumpiness in his throat and the way his hips and thighs and groin all seem to seek her. 

Her hands are on his upper back, running over the hill at the base of his neck before they travel down his spine, making him shiver and gasp against her mouth. His hands skim her waist then, when stillness no longer feels an option, both thumbs tracing along the undersides of her breasts. She tightens around him then, her thighs clamped around his sides, and he feels as if he nearly choked on nothing, pleasure sparking behind his eyes. So he does it again, thumbs trailing higher, running over one nipple, then the other. 

“Jeez, Emori,” he mutters, heartbeat insistent in his gut. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, exactly, but he knows he likes it.

“Yeah?” She breaths, then wraps an arm around his shoulder to kiss him. He puts every bit of affirmation he can manage into that kiss, tugs on her bottom lip in a way that makes her clench his shoulder. 

Her movements are faster then, and his hands find her hips again, helping to hold her weight and guide the way she rises and falls. His lips drift to her neck, then her shoulder, nose bumping against her skin with the motion. 

She says his name twice, first just a whisper, then like a question, although one he can’t parse out. The hand not slung around his shoulders is between their bodies again, her knuckles bumping just under his navel as she runs her fingers over herself. His gaze rises to look at her face, mesmerized by the sweat beaded on her forehead, and her dark, soft eyes. 

A smile breaks out on his face, because she’s beautiful and clever and because her little puffs of breath tickle the hairs on his forehead. A little huff of laughter escapes too, and if he were less overwhelmed by her he might dissect how lucky he feels in this moment. He kisses her instead, and realizes with a jump in his chest that she’s smiling against his mouth too. 

For a second everything seems brighter. 

When he comes it's with his arms wrapped tight around her waist, and her legs bracketing his hips, and their lips brushing against each other, and he's sure he's never felt this close to another person. 

His heartbeat recedes to a normal tempo quickly, although he he suspects Emori would still be able to hear it, given how insistent it is in his chest. Her hand relaxes from where it had been clutched at his back, slipping so that her thumb drags along the side of his neck. He shudders, the nerves in his thighs and hands and around his jugular still jittery. 

Emori shifts off him slowly, then sits next to him, leg to leg, and rests her head on his shoulder. He doesn’t quite know what to say now, there’s probably some etiquette he never learned, not that Emori would know it either. Kissing the top of her head feels acceptable, so he does, and watches as she reaches out to interlock their fingers, their clasped hands resting in the dip where their thighs press against each other. 

Outside it’s still raining, not quite in sheets, but not easily either. Their fire has dwindled while they were distracted, making the chill more persistent. It nips where sweat is cooling on his skin. Putting his clothes back on would be the smart thing, but it would also require moving, and despite the shiver travelling up his arm, all he really wants to do is lie back with Emori and take a nap. 

“You hungry?”

Or eat. He could totally eat. Now that Emori’s mentioned it he’s pretty thirsty too. 

“Yeah, I could eat.” Emori tilts her head up to look at him, gives him a happy curved smile, and kisses his cheek. She starts slipping back into her clothes, and it’s not like he thought she’d walk around naked or anything, but, well, a guy could hope. She doesn’t tie her hair back though. Or put the glove back on. 

He tugs his shirt and pants back on too, but forgoes his shoes, too lazy to deal with laces. Emori nurtures the fire back to full strength, warming her hands while he fetches the canteen and takes a deep gulp before passing it over. 

“Do we have anything to collect the water?” Emori calls out as he shuffles through their stuff to find the food they’d picked up yesterday. He finds the root vegetables, not carrots but something like them, and presents them to Emori. 

“Unless you brought that bucket from the boat I don’t think so,” he says, Emori makes a face like she’s annoyed with herself, but accepts the vegetables and begins cutting off their leafy tops. 

“Do you know what these are?” He takes a bite of the food after she hands it back. It’s not great, kinda woody and a lot to chew through. 

“Graunvij,” she says, “I don’t know the word in your language.” 

He nods, turning it over in his hands. “It’ll probably taste better if we cook it.” 

Emori agrees, and hands over another of their knives, working together they behead and halve the vegetables. There’s slightly more than the two of them could eat for meal, so they save what’s left over and roast what they’re going to eat over the flames. They taste considerably better after that, smokey and kind of nutty. 

Emori refills the canteen with water from the puddle at the mouth of the cave, sticking her arm out into the deluge. Silhouetted by the mist outside she looks like some woodland spirit, or one of those ghosts she half-believes in. Something with unknown power, like a lightning-struck tree that still stands, or a hurricane seen from space. 

“I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon,” she says, stepping back into the shelter. Water droplets are scattered through her hair, she’s undeniably more human in the full light, but there are remnants of that power still there. He wonders if she knows she wields it, or if it’s a secret only he knows. He’s most likely the only one to care, but he doesn’t mind that. 

“What does that mean?” He asks as she settles down next to him. It means they aren’t going anywhere, he thinks, but maybe Emori has some other ideas.

“It means we’re stuck here,” she confirms. “No point going out there just to get sick.” 

“Rain can make you sick?” he asks. He thought it was just germs and viruses, tiny little things that want to kill you for some reason. Rain is just water. If you’re sick on the Ark you get a second water allotment, it’s not supposed to make you sicker. 

“The cold and wet can crawl under your skin and into your lungs,” Emori explains, “sometimes it gives you a rattling cough that won’t go away. Mostly it just makes your nose weep. Do they not have sickness like that in space?” 

“No, they did,” he says. In his memory it was always the old people who got the cold ,coughing diseases. Kids were the ones who got the hot diseases, who burned up, who got rashes and pox, who got the flu. 

“What’s wrong?” Emori asks. He blinks with the feeling akin to being shaken awake. 

“Nothing,” he replies reflexively, then shakes his head at Emori’s cinched eyebrows. “I was just stuck in my head.” 

“About what?” She asks, repositioning herself back on her knees so he has to look at her. Curiosity colors her features along with the firelight, but not the insistent or malicious kind; she’d let it go if he asked. That’s why he continues.

“The last time I was really sick,” he says, and rubs his nose like it might still be dripping. “I had the flu, bad. My dad tried to steal medicine for me, but he got caught and killed for it. And a couple days later I recovered all on my own.” He shrugs, “It’s old news.” 

Emori hugs him. Chin on his shoulder, arms around his waist. He doesn’t even have to think before hugging her back. For a moment he wonders if he’s going to cry, but no. He doesn’t feel like a scabbed over wound the way he normally does when he thinks about his parents. 

Emori moves away slowly, adding more kindle to the fire, her eyes always flickering back to him.

“Well, we’re warm and dry in here,” Emori says with that calm, searching look on her face, like on the dock after she had kissed his cheek that first time. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, reaching out for her arm so he could drag her back to sit next to him. “Who knew caves could be so comfortable?” 

“Oh, I did,” Emori says, leaning into him. “I’m sure if we look harder we could find a whole system of them. Those are fun to explore, and usually have their own water sources.” 

“Sounds like a date,” he says. Emori nudges his side. 

“As if I haven’t been showing you a good time this whole week.” 

“Can’t argue with that,” he answers, and he really can’t. Earth has always been better than the alternative, but Earth with Emori is actually enjoyable. Like what he imagined a real life would be like. 

The fire shrinks, chewing through what little wood they have left with voracious hunger, but neither he or Emori are too inclined to keep feeding it. 

“So do your lazy days include going back to sleep?” Emori asks, and it’s kinda amazing how much she gets him. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, a little huff of a laugh escaping. Emori flops back on their makeshift bed almost immediately. “You tired?” 

She makes a noise of agreement, and drags him back so he’s lying next to her. “I could stay awake,” she muses, “but I don’t want to.” 

He brushes away some of her hair so that he doesn’t lie on it when he settles down next to her. Emori wraps one arm around his waist, and evens her breathing against his shoulder. 

The rain keeps falling, but not in the unrelenting way it had during the night. Now it just serves as a reminder that he’s safe and comfortable where the weather can’t sour his mood. He closes his eyes, urging sleep to come. He’s not quite there yet when Emori says his name.

“John?” She prods, like she thinks he might be asleep. 

“Yeah?” He responds, groggy but not annoyed. 

“Earlier,” she says, her touch running over the back of his hand, “I’m glad we did that.” 

He opens his eyes and turns half turns over his shoulder to face her. “Me too,” he agrees. She pecks his lips then settles down again, her eyes closed. 

“We should do it again sometime.” 

There’s laughter in his mouth but he swallows it down, not the mocking kind, but the kind that might give away that he’s a bit too happy. 

“Whenever you want.” 

Emori hums in acknowledgement and in combination with the patter of the rain it sounds a bit like a long forgotten lullaby, called up from the Earth just for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't ask me why they played eye spy, i don't know. Thanks for reading!


	8. Moving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hasn't been as carefully edited as those previous because I was anxious to get this one out (it felt overdue) but i hope you enjoy anyway!

Murphy hasn’t been well rested in so long he had forgotten what it felt like. The softness under his skin and the clearness in his vision after he wakes are almost strange in their unfamiliarity. When he thinks about it, he’s not sure he’s ever been well rested. He likes it. 

He’d like it more if he hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night. 

“Jeez, that was a long nap,” he mutters to himself, careful not to jostle Emori as he sits up, needing to relieve himself. She blinks awake anyway, her eyes darting around in confusion for a moment before memory seems to catch up with her. 

“We slept a long time,” she observes, glancing up at him as he stands. Her voice is clear and he doesn’t doubt that the prospect of sleeping till morning has wandered away from her too. 

“Yeah,” he agrees with a brief chuckle, moving to the cave entrance to take care of his business. Outside the rain has stopped, leaving behind a fresh breath in the air. The inside of the cave feels humid and stuffy in comparison. 

“It’s nice outside,” he says, making his way over to Emori, “We should go for a walk or something.” 

“John, it’s the middle of the night,” she says, but there’s the suggestion of a smile around the corners of her mouth. 

“So? The moon’s almost full, we’ll be able to see.” That turns out to be all the convincing she needs as she rolls to her feet, the smile fully formed on her face. They slip on their shoes and then he reaches for her hand and picks a direction to wander off to. 

“You’re going to be annoyed if we get lost,” Emori says as they duck through low hanging tree branches. 

“Won’t happen,” he counters, unsure where his newfound energy is coming from and but happy to ride the wave it brings. “You didn’t give me those navigational lessons for nothing.” 

“You were not paying attention to those,” Emori chuckles with a shake of her head that sends her hair swinging. Their clothes are still askew from the sleep and she had forgotten the customary bandana in their rush. Her glove isn’t on either he realizes, pressing his thumb into the back of her hand. The spontaneous trip has a touch of daring now, their half-bare bodies and minds out in the wild with the half-dark sky as their only mask.

“I was mostly paying attention,” he compromises, not bothering to lower his voice; let the bandits and coyotes come, see if he cares. “Sometimes my teacher was distracting.” 

Emori narrows her eyes at him, the sharp gleam in them making her look somewhat like a coyote herself. Like she could eat him alive. 

“Oh I was distracting, was I?” 

He rolls his eyes and tugs her forward by her hand so that their shoulders collide. 

“As if you didn’t know that.” 

She leans forward to kiss him, which basically just proves his point. 

“Okay, let’s find something interesting,” she says, pulling away, but still in his space. She’s messing with him, being distracting again, but it’s not like he cares. 

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been talking about,” he says, sneaking in another smacking kiss before she drags him sharply to the right. 

Even if he knew where he was going the shadows of the trees twisting and stretching and blending into one another would no doubt just leave him lost and confused. But there’s nothing to fear from the darkness of foliage, at least not for him or Emori, who are wandering through the forest without agenda. 

They fall into a clearing, unremarkable except for being nearly perfectly circular in shape. Looking up at the night sky now is comparable to looking through the lense of a telescope; a circular window peeking into the reaches of space. 

“I understand why your ancestors wanted to be up there,” Emori says, noticing the way he’s looking, her own head tilted heavensward. “All those stars…” 

He doesn’t tell her that where he’s from no one really revelled in the stars, that it was the Earth they were all enamored with. Him included. Maybe that’s why he likes Emori so much, all that dirt under her fingernails. He holds her hand a little tighter. 

“John, one of them moved!” Emori exclaims, and he shifts his gaze from her and back up to the sky, but he seems to have missed the phenomenon. 

“A shooting star? I missed it.” 

Emori makes a tsking sound, but no other comment. He considers asking if she wished for anything, but he doesn’t know if that’s something grounders do. Even if it was, it doesn’t seem like something Emori would be inclined to. As soft as the shine in her eyes is as she looks up, the realistic and hardset stance of her shoulders never quite falls. 

“C’mon,” he says when he feels his boots sinking a bit too far into the mud. 

“Where do you want to go?” Emori asks, even as she moves with him, ducking out of the clearing and back into the depths of the forest. 

“I told you, somewhere interesting.” 

“But why?” Emori asks, punctuating the statement by swatting away a branch. 

“Do I need a reason?” 

Emori makes a contemplative noise. He could tell her that he just wanted the fresh air, or the time with her. Both are true. But getting fresh air and spending time with each other is all they’ve been doing for the past week. Why is now different?

It’s not, he decides. There’s no harm in her knowing he likes her; he’s said as much before, and showed her too. By now he should know she won’t hold it against him. “Maybe I just wanted to get out of that cave and spend time with you,” he relents. “Wouldn’t have been able to sleep more anyway.” 

He doesn’t look over at Emori, but he’s willing to bet there’s a crinkled smile on her face. It’s nice, proving himself right. 

Nearby, water trickles. It’s melodic, ringing out in the quiet of the night, and in unsaid agreement he and Emori turn to the source. The stream is narrow, like the one they’ve been using near the strawberry bushes, and it’s probably only flowing so freeling because of the recent rainfall. It’s prettier than the other one, the moonlight gliding over the surface of the water, making it shine a bright white before it runs back to black. 

“A waterfall,” Emori says, and sure enough the raised crag to their left supplies the stream, the water free falling in thin rivulets before tumbling down the bed of rocks and pebbles that turn over each other in wake of the current. “Interesting enough?”

It’s just a stream. A pretty stream, sure, but still nothing more than running water. He hums, let’s the gurgle of the water rush in his ears instead of answering. Emori throws a stone into the flow, sighing as it makes a satisfying plonk! 

“Do they have music in space?” Emori asks suddenly, reaching for his hand again. 

“Course,” he says. Music from the servers was usually reserved for people on Alpha Station, but every now and then an administrator somewhere would be stir crazy enough to play something over the Ark-wide intercom, where you could hear it even in the Sky box. And there was singing, ancient lullabies passed down among parents, risque ditties kids would chant to annoy their teachers, carols inspired by dead religions that never quite lost their shine. “Old recorded music, and singing. Just one instrument though, a harmonica one of the original astronauts brought up with them.” That got passed between stations every month, a more popular artifact than any tree or book. 

“Someone once told me that the whole world’s an instrument so long as you care to listen.” 

“Really?” Murphy scoffs, not quite believing Emori would associate herself with someone so fanciful. She nods. 

“Best con man I ever met.” Murphy raises his eyebrows, unable to deny his curiosity at such high praise. “He was lame, and estranged, if not outright banished from his village. So he’d find a spot on a busy road and sing.” Emori’s head tilts, straining, as if she can still hear the final echos of the song. “His voice was…” Her eyes pinch as she searches for a way to describe it. “Deep, and beautiful. Like thunder that brings warm rain during a drought.” 

Emori’s expression suggests she finds her words an unsatisfactory comparison, but he nods in understanding. “Shame I couldn’t hear it.” 

“No!” Emori exclaims in protest, squeezing his forearm. “People were putty in his hands after they heard even a note, desperate for more. He made a killing.” 

“And gave you some wisdom?”

“No. It was just part of the performance,” Emoris says, but with a single undermining tremor of hesitation. “But do you think the stream is sort of musical?” 

There’s silence, as they both listen, but not silence at all, he soon realizes. The stream bubbles, steady and carefree as Emori claims, and there’s a steady kerplunk as well, of water drops hitting wet stones. Underneath it all is the hum of insects, and the occasional rustle of a breeze. 

“I suppose it is,” he admits in a whisper, so as to let the song continue. Emori nestles against his side, as if they were watching something together instead of simply standing in the dark. 

“John?” she whispers, after another minute or so of this, “Do they dance in space?” 

“Yeah,” he says, still respecting the quiet. He remembers his dad twirling his mom around their cramped quarters, how he’d beg for a turn and get to stand on her feet as they waddled around to a beat created in their own heads. “Do they dance on the ground?” He asks as a distraction. 

“I’ve seen dancing,” Emori says, and he doesn’t miss the distancing way she talks about it, the condemnation in her words. “It’s typically a group activity.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation on his part, before he remembers he’s talking to Emori and that her opinion of him won’t change because of what he’s about to say. 

“You know, two’s a group.”

Emori seems confused as he takes her hand in his, raising them above her head to tug her into a twirl. His other hand falls on her shoulder first, before trailing down to her waist as he tries to remember which way leads. 

They dance in a clumsy circle until Emori plants her feet and they come to a halt. 

“That’s a dance?” She asks, peering at him as if that would reveal some greater knowledge about dancing. 

“Yeah,” he says, trying not to be self-conscious. “What’s a dance to you?” 

Emori lets his hand slide from his grip. They must be easing towards dawn because it’s getting easier to see her. Or maybe he’s just standing close enough. 

“I won’t be doing it right.” 

He shrugs. “I won’t be able to tell.”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Emori huffs and then takes a step back from him, shaking out her arms briefly. Her eyes fall closed, and for a moment she simply stands like that, letting tension fall off her shoulders and run out of her arms. At first she just sways, almost imperceptible, like a sapling in the wind.

It’s like watching someone fall asleep, intimate, almost intrusive. He can’t hear her taking breaths, but he can see it in the steady rise and fall of her chest. Emori has her palms turned out in his direction, slowly she curls them into fists, not as if to strike out, but rather like it’s the only place to contain her energy. 

Then her head is thrown back and she stomps her heel into the ground, the movement heavy and running up her whole leg. It’s sudden and rhythmic, like someone snapping in his face. She twists her shoulders from side to side, at the beat of her heel, then throws her hands up and lets them fall slowly as she pivots in a circle. 

She repeats the movement, beating with her other heel now, her head upright, and hair strewn like a muddy delta around her face. There’s more movement in her hips now, a circular twist that softens the edge off her jarring stomp. Once she’s turned fully clockwise the falling of her heel eases, and there’s just her arms, hanging at her sides like loose threads off a sweater. 

The set of Emori’s jaw is loose, soft, her mouth open just a bit. His feet take him in her direction. 

“Put your arms over my shoulders,” he says, taking her by the waist, much closer than the first time. Emori does as instructed, hands dangling over his back, her finger tips pressing down on the bump of his spine every so often. She rests her forehead against his chest. They sway. 

“You didn’t laugh,” she says, almost breathless. 

“It wasn’t funny,” he answers. Maybe it would have been, in the light of day, if his mood was just a hair more lighthearted, if Emori caught between the semi-darkness of midnight and dawn hadn’t looked so enthralling. “You were great.” 

“There’s meant to be more people,” she says, lifting her head, “and a bonfire.” 

“You don’t need them,” he affirms, taking the opportunity of their proximity to study her face, still calm. A strand of hair dangles over her forehead in disarray. His fingers twitch as he tucks it away. 

“I don’t need them,” she repeats, then tilts her head to kiss him. She stretches out the collar of his shirt, fingers tugging and pulling at it then running under to skim over his shoulder blades in turn. 

They make out for a while, the sounds of their mouths are hushed notes flowing under the melody of the stream. Until Emori’s voice cuts through it.

“We can stay here for a little longer.” 

The light is growing stronger now, but it’s a cloudy sort of light. Leftover mist from the rain still hangs about the trees, and hovers over the water. It’s a muted morning, one that will keep them cloaked. Emori’s hands sit on his hips, just over the waistband of his pants. 

“I don’t think we have anywhere better to be.” 

The ground is cool at his back. Damp, even, on the bare skin of his exposed nape. It just makes Emori feel warmer in contrast, around and above him, hot breath on his neck. It’s enough to make him feel flushed all over, even when they’re back on their feet. 

Dawn had come up properly sometime when he was distracted. It’s a soft dawn, no splash of sunrise, just a persistent light that encroached slowly until night was batted away. In the light of day the stream is still a stream. It pretends to be common as it rushes a couple feet away from where they stand. 

“Was that interesting enough for you?” 

Emori’s comment snags his attention, her words crisper and louder than anything either of them have said since waking. He rolls his eyes at the teasing as he brushes dirt off the back of his head. “Sure,” he agrees, and then they both laugh at the sarcasm. 

“Good, because if we go to the road now we’ll have most of the day to ourselves.” Emori’s smile is coy as she tucks her hand under his elbow. 

“If you even know where the road is,” he says, even as he lets himself be dragged away. 

Emori ignores his comment. “Morning is a good time usually, we’ll catch someone on their way to market.” 

He nods in understanding as they pick their way in an approximation of the direction they had come from. Until Emori vears them off course. 

“This will be quicker,” she says, and he recognizes the way to their traps. “It’ll take too long to get back to the cave.” 

“Don’t you need a knife?” 

“I have one,” Emori says, as if she can’t believe he’d think otherwise. She lifts her foot and points at her boot in explanation, although he hadn’t seen any knife when he’d taken it off her earlier. 

He shrugs his shoulders in acknowledgement, glad to take her word on it. 

They come to the traps soon enough, and as if in repayment for being empty two days ago, a rabbit and a bird squirm against the knots holding them captive. Emori goes straight for the rabbit, ending its struggle swiftly, but Murphy hangs back, eyes on the bird instead. 

A bird’s leg should be thin enough to slip the thick string, but after watching it roll on the ground for a handful of seconds Murphy identifies the problem; its left wing is broken. 

Snapping its neck is easy, the crack sharp like his knuckles in the morning. He keeps holding it by its neck, not wanting to see the way it might hang to the side. 

“Are birds any good to eat?” 

“They’re bony. And you need to pluck them.” Emori looks at him carefully over her shoulder. Like maybe she thinks the bird might reanimate in his hand. She’s already started work on the rabbit. 

“Ok,” he says. The feathers on the bird’s head are soft and slick. Like his own hair when he goes to long without washing it. 

“I’ll do it later,” Emori says. She’s standing next to him now, taking the dead animal from his hand. There are dots of blood on her finger tips. She sees him notice and brushes them off on his cheek. “C’mon.”

He sits next to Emori and lets her smear dirt and blood behind his ears and across his temple and over his heart. The look of concentration on her face as she does it is cute, her folded eyebrows so concentrated on the artistry, but the shine in her eyes undercutting some of the seriousness of the work. 

“Do you enjoy this?”

“Don’t move,” she reprimands, continuing to draw on what he assumes is a nasty gash to his jaw. He doesn’t think him moving will mess anything up too much, or that anyone will be inspecting his fake injuries so closely as to notice, but he has no problem humoring Emori. Maybe she realizes that’s what he’s doing because she continues more seriously. “A little bit. Can’t have you being too clean.” 

There’s a sexual joke there, but not one he can pin down before she moves on. 

“It’s calming, that’s something you need before a con.” 

A laugh shakes in his chest briefly at the notion that she finds blood a comfort. But maybe it’s the focus she finds reassuring, or the touch. He’s stays still until she declares that they’re done. 

Emori has once again picked a new section of road. Here the path narrows considerably, a factor of the dense thick trees on both sides of the road. It doesn’t look well-trodden, although that might just be because of the recent rain. He spots a bit of a divot in the road that will give Emori the higher ground on any of their victims.

“There good?” He says with a point. Emori considers it for only a moment before nodding. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, leaning forward to kiss him before nudging his shoulders in the right direction. 

The time he spends on the ground seems to creep on slowly and without end. The urge to roll over and ask Emori what the hold up is swells in him every couple minutes only to be tamped down at the last second. He knows impatience isn’t a good look him. 

That doesn’t stop his hackles from rising a bit, making him more alert than he has been while playing bait in the past. Not that he has a set normal for this really. It’s only what, the third, fourth time they’ve robbed someone together? He’s lost count already. It feels like a long time. Like it could be a long time.

It feels like a long time now, seconds creeping along slowly enough for him to feel the changes in warmth as shadows eclipse his face. Salvation comes in the form of a creaking wheel approaching from somewhere down the road to his left. 

The grind of the wheel gets louder and more irritating until it’s practically sitting on his ear. It stops there to be replaced by disgruntled mumbling. And then two sharp grunts and a curse that transcends language. 

Murphy rolls to his feet quickly, eyes latching onto Emori standing over their target, a tall, lean man with a braided beard brought to one knee. His left ankle is rolled over so that the majority of his weight is rested on the side of his foot. Murphy doubts it’s broken, but it looks sprained in a decidedly painful manner. Emori’s knife, shorter than the one she generally uses, is held tight to his throat, and seems to be the only thing keeping him from teetering over. His eyes are shifty, terrified, unable to focus on his cart or Murphy or Emori. One of his hands is curled tight into a fist, a measure against the pain in his leg, and the other holds weakly to the hem of Emori’s shirt, a poor act of defense. 

“Get the cart,” Emori instructs, pointing with her free hand and indicating that she has the man handled with her strong stance and calm gaze. 

The cart is light, but he’s hardly dragged it a meter before a yell from the mouth of their mark as him dropping the handles. 

The man who was one cruel word away from wetting himself less than a minute ago is gone, replaced by a snarling, red-faced dog, angry at having to be held on a leash. 

He spits harsh words that Murphy doesn’t need a definition for to recognize as insults. His head is turned as much to the side as Emori’s knife will allow, gaze focused on Emori’s exposed left hand. Spittle flies from his mouth, like outrage is something that can save him. 

Murphy twitches where he stands, not understanding why Emori hasn’t knocked him out yet, or done something worse than sprain his ankle. But there is something rising in her, slow, like bubbling lava. It’s an expression he’s never seen on her, poised anger and pain that manifests in her mouth; not a smile, but a presentation of her teeth. 

The man on his knees can’t see it, her dagger eyes are bared to the back of his head, so he keeps talking like an idiot. Something hot and dangerous rolls in Murphy’s stomach, makes him think about kicking the man’s other leg out from under him to plant his face in the dirt. 

“Hey, maybe you should be nicer to the lady holding you at knifepoint, huh?” Murphy snaps. The target’s gaze moves to him, the turning of his head too fast, causing blood to well on his neck. Not deep, but still a rupture of skin. It’s probably the pain that shuts him up. Good. 

Emori’s hand is suddenly at his neck, just on the underside of his jaw. He shudders at her touch, but has no place to move with the knife so snug against his skin. A smile ticks at Murphy’s mouth. 

She says something into his ear, too low for Murphy to hear, but it has their victim shaking. Then that strike comes down on his temple and he crumples. Emori kicks his gut to make sure he’s out, perhaps a tad harder than necessary. 

“Let’s go,” Emori says to him, her chest heaving once. He takes the handles of the cart and catches up to her quickly. 

“What was he saying?” He asks, a mix of morbid curiosity and a desire to make sure she’s okay. 

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she says, chin lifted. Not okay then. “Just that I’m too unworthy to deserve a ditch to die in.” 

“Hey,” he says, stalling them. He wants to reach for her hand, but it’s tucked deep into her pocket. He settles for her elbow, rubbing circles into it with his thumb. “He’s the one facedown in a ditch right now. Too scared to even put up a fight.” 

Emori makes a solid attempt at a smile, but it’s still tight and close-lipped. 

“I know. That’s what I told him.” She starts walking again, and he has to let go of her to keep up. A moment later she seems to register that their speed needs to be adjusted to compensate for staggering roll of the cart. “I’m fine, John, really.” 

“That’s a big thinking face for someone who’s fine.” 

Emori huffs. “I’m just concerned that patrols might come looking for us. I’ve just made us far more identifiable.” 

He doesn’t think Emori’s shuttering up is a simple factor of worrying about others coming in pursuit, but it is a valid worry, and one he hadn’t considered. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, seeking to comfort. “Can’t we just move caves, start terrorizing a different section of the road?” 

Emori smiles properly, her shoulder bumping into his. “A good idea. It’ll be easy now, with the cart.” 

Not quite as easy as they might have hoped, because once they move off the road the cart refuses to roll forward on the uneven terrain. Emori has to hoist up the front as they make their way back to the cave. It’s not heavy, but it does make it difficult to maneuver and slows down their progress considerably. 

Even with the added burden they make it back to the cave just as the sun’s reaching its peak. Emori dives into inspecting the contents of their steal, and Murphy can’t help but feel underwhelmed as she begins to pile the goods on the cave floor. 

“Empty cages?” He questions, nudging one with his toe. It falls over with a clatter. 

“For capturing game,” Emori explains, delving into the bottom. There’s at least a blanket folded on the bottom. A pot too, the accompanying lid bent out of shape. “They’ll be useful.” 

“Really?” He can’t help but say, his doubts obvious. The biggest one looks like a caged fan, except there’s no motor attached and thus no way for it to work. He just doesn’t see the point. 

“At least they’re well made, if nothing else we can trade them,” Emori says, correcting the cage he had kicked. 

“I guess you’re the expert,” he says, shrugging. “When do you want to leave?” 

“Let’s rest for a while,” Emori says, taking his hand to drag him down to sit next to her on their new blanket. “Have something to eat too.” 

He slumps down next to her for a little while, massaging the ache away from his hands where the cart’s wooden handles had corroded at his palms. It’ll be a pain hefting the thing through the woods while looking for a new place to stay. 

“Think we can do anything about that thing’s shitty wheel?” He asks Emori. 

She sits up straighter, giving it a perfunctory gaze. “I’m no carpenter. Don’t have the tools for it regardless.” 

“That’s what I figured.” At least he’ll have thick calluses for all the trouble. “Wanna pretend we’re cooks instead?” He reaches for the pot. It’s hardly big, but could hold a decent meal for two. 

“Sure,” Emori says, handing over the bird and rabbit from earlier before getting to work on the fire. 

Can you boil rabbit meat? Murphy wouldn’t know, but the idea of it doesn’t sound appetizing. He could try making stew, that’s what they had every day in Camp Jaha so they could have enough to feed everyone. It can’t be too hard. 

He cuts up the leftover vegetables and throws them in the pot with some water, then spears the meat so he and Emori can roast it before adding it to the pot as well. 

“How do we know when it’s done?” 

“When it starts bubbling?” Is his his only guess. He fits the misshapen lid onto the top as best he can and sets it above the fire. 

“So it’ll be a little while, yet. We can start packing,” Emori suggests. 

In his mind he thought it would take longer to pack, but even though they have more things than the day they came off the boat it’s still not a lot. He’s trying to fit the cages into the cart in a way that will leave the most room when he notices Emori crouched by their furs, unmoving.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches, a line of questioning dying on his tongue when he sees what she’s doing, turning her glove over in her hand. He sits beside her slowly. 

“Today was the first time in years that I didn’t wear it out,” she says, musing. “You made me forget, for a while, that other people think differently.” He can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. And when she continues a moment later saying, “That’s dangerous,” with their lips inches from each other, it doesn’t clarify anything for him. 

“Do you mind the danger?” he asks, because he doesn’t think she does. 

“No,” she confirms, and lets him take her hand, the glove falling to the dirt. She kisses him deep and aching. He cups her jaw and she shudders, her lips stuttering once.

Emori eases back and he goes with her, enjoying the breathy sounds that come from her mouth when he nips at her neck. His nose nudges her collar and Emori hums as he presses kisses on her sternum. 

“John,” she says, reverent. He leans up to kiss her mouth again, catching that soft sound. “We should eat,” she says, pulling back just a tad. And it takes a few mind-clearing blinks for him to understand and nod in agreement. 

In his opinion they could have let the stew cook longer, it’s more soupy than anything, and overall lacking in flavor, but Emori eats quickly. 

“It’s really good,” Emori says, seemingly holding herself back from dipping into his portion. He doesn’t agree with her but his heart sings a bit in his chest at the compliment anyway. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says before drinking the last of the watery broth. “Edible, sure.” 

“Well, I thought it was tasty.” 

“You’ll eat anything.” 

Emori pauses, holding his eyes so long that if it were anyone else he’d be uncomfortable. 

“I’m serious, John. Thank you for cooking for me.” 

She takes the empty pot and the few other items they’ve yet to pack and tucks them away. He watches her back for a caught moment, feeling, for a couple of moments, his heartbeat in his throat. Then, recognizing that they’re ready to go, stands and licks his lips. The meal hadn’t been that bad. 

He drags the cart to the mouth of the cave, stopping when he realizes Emori is lagging behind. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to miss it,” Murphy says as Emori stands in the middle of the cave they’re gifting back to nature. 

“I’m not the sentimental type, John.” She looks it though, with the way she’s surveying the cave’s walls. “And even if I was we’ve been here less than a week.” 

“Then what are you doing?” 

Emori steps out into the fullness of the day. She’s quiet as she stands next to him, and he’s near certain that he’s caught her in an act of uncharacteristic reminiscence. “I was saying goodbye to the spirits,” is what she finally comes up with. It startles a laugh out of him. 

She laughs too, a sound like clashing bells, something delicate that had chosen to ring so hard it could make your teeth quake. 

Dragging the cart through the forest is as annoying as it was the first time, but with Emori standing next to him as they tug it a memory bubbles up unbidden. Her trudging next to him through shifting sands as they pulled the cart that she’d eventually use to carry away goods she’d stolen from them. It’s weird to compare that moment to this one. Thinking they had an understanding versus actually having one. 

“What’s gotten into your head?” Emori asks. He hadn’t realized there was a particular look on his face that was giving him away, and maybe there hadn’t been, but Emori is perceptive like that. 

He doesn’t really know how to explain it. Gratefulness that they found one another, maybe, after that first black eye of betrayal. But his mouth doesn’t know how to form those words.

“Just got deja vu,” he says instead, and when that doesn’t seem to clarify anything to Emori. “Like when you get a feeling that you’ve lived this exact moment before.” 

“Nothing in my life has been like this,” Emori says, quiet, tree-bark eyes catching on the panes of his face. 

“Not for me either,” he says, matching her tone. 

They don’t talk much after that. Murphy keeps his eyes peeled for a new place to stay, but it’s Emori who finds it. Another cave, bigger than the last, but with the same craggy walls and dirt covered floors, and, when they lay out their things, the same comfortable atmosphere. Or maybe that only comes after he and Emori sit next to each other by the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look i’m not saying that they got caught in Hakeldama because they didn’t have a good luck kiss first...but that’s exactly what I’m saying. Also don’t consider Murphys stew recipe pleasssse parsnips, rabbit, and water would be awful.  
> Thanks for reading and commenting, it means a lot!! One more chapter that should be out sometime before s6!!


	9. Beginning

Wind thrashes through leaves and brambles outside. As if shaken by that breeze, Murphy wakes with a rustling under his skin. He peels open an eye and finds Emori awake too, fingers twisting the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Another storm coming?” He asks, groggy.

“I think it’ll blow over,” Emori says. “It’s not raining.” 

He grunts, wanting to roll over but not wanting to move away from Emori. There’s a crick in his neck. 

“We can go back to sleep,” Emori continues. He moves his head in what only marginally passes as a nod, falling back asleep with Emori’s knuckles skimming the inside of his bicep. When he awakes again in the real morning he gets the impression that Emori hasn’t gotten any more sleep. 

Not that she looks tired, but she moves with too much energy for someone who has just woken up. Even compared to her usual alertness. 

“You sleep okay?” He asks, swallowing a yawn. 

“Fine, John.” 

He remembers a few nights ago, when he had jolted awake with an unknown tightness around his limbs. Emori had implied then that she slept only in short bursts, so as to avoid nightmares. Something tells him she wouldn’t like to revisit that conversation, so he squeezes her knee in an act of comfort instead. 

“Well I could sleep for another couple of hours,” he says, half truthful, half just wanting her to lie back down with him. 

“We have things to do, John,” Emori says, but she doesn’t stand up immediately either and he lets himself lean into her at the sign of hesitation. But Emori has a strong will. “Come on let’s have something to eat before we get going.” 

She shuffles through their stuff as he shrugs on his jacket and put out the last burning embers of the fire. It seems Emori was right about the storm blowing over, the day seemed clear, but there was still a lingering breeze. Laying shirtless on the ground probably won’t be the best today. 

“I thought we had more,” Emori grumbles, presenting what little food is left. There’s a bit of jerky, from which of their cons he doesn’t remember, but nothing else. “What we really need is salt, so we can preserve what we catch.” 

“And where would we get that?” He asks. Emori splits half of the remaining food and he frowns at the portion size, but doesn’t complain sitting next to her and eating quickly. It looks as if Emori has a place, or person, in mind, and she mulls it over as they eat. 

“It just doesn’t make sense to go that far out of our way,” she says once they’ve finished their meager breakfast. 

“Well do we have anywhere better to be?” He asks. He wouldn’t mind going back to the boat for a bit, or even making their way on foot. Movement even sounds kind of appealing, getting further away from Jaha and the Ark and memories that stick like blood under his fingernails. 

Emori is still though, her eyes betraying that her mind is miles away. 

“Emori?” 

“The closer we are to the capital the easier it is to run the con, especially as spring continues,” she says with a sharp blink and the swing of her hair as she turns away from him. 

“Hey,” he says, his hand falling onto the exposed part of her arm. He makes sure she’s looking at him before he continues. “What’s up? You can tell me.” 

Emori doesn’t say anything for a long time, long enough for worry to simmer in the back of his throat. 

“I’m just not used to thinking about the future,” she says finally. “With Otan...we just lived day to day. And felt lucky for it.” 

“We can keep doing that,” he says, quick to reassure her. There are goosebumps on her skin, under his palm, he strokes his thumb over her arm to try and warm her up. Emori’s lips pinch. 

“You make me want that, though,” she says. He can't decipher the look on her face. There are edges of shock to it, like she can’t believe herself, but a soft nervousness too, and a light in her eyes. “Something like this that lasts.” 

She leans forward and he meets her halfway for a kiss. There’s a searching pressure in the catch of Emori’s lips. She returns to kiss the corner of his mouth twice after pulling away. 

“So what’s the plan then?” He asks, smirk twitching on his face as he admires the redness of Emori’s lips. 

“Same as it’s been. Check the traps, run the con.” 

“And we can figure out what comes next later?” 

Emori nods once, the motion heavy with thought. “Yes.” 

They leave the cave shortly after that, cages in hand. They are easier to set up than rope traps, and according to Emori more likely to catch something too. After that they make their way to the stream, a longer walk because of their new location, but more or less familiar. 

“How long until the water gets warm?” He asks as he refills the canteen.

“Months,” she says, scrubbing some water on her face, not even flinching from the cold. “But the weather will be better before that. The heat can get sticky, you’ll be glad for the cold water then.” 

He takes her word for it and hands her the canteen. It occurs to him, as he watches her drink, that he’d take her word on most things. He trusts Emori, has for days now, but the ways it manifest still creep up on him. With easy stuff like the weather, but with the dark misshapen figures from his past too, and his body. Maybe one day he’ll do it unthinkingly. 

“Ready to go?” Emori asks, and he nods, offers a hand to pull her to her feet. 

They make their way back to the area where they planted the traps. If he had to guess he’d say it’s been about an hour, and they haven’t caught anything. 

“Are we gonna do it without the blood this time?” he asks, standing up from where he was crouched, finicking with one of the cages. He’s surprised an errant breeze doesn’t knock it over, the wire bars are so thin. 

“We’ll need the meat regardless,” Emori says, “who knows what the next mark will have on them. Better off for us to stay and wait.” 

“More boring for us,” Murphy replies, but follows her a few meters away so that the cages are mostly in view, but without the threat of their bodies scaring off any animals. Murphy lets himself collapse against a tree and watch as Emori carefully peers over a bush. “Don’t need to be so vigilant, I doubt there’s gonna be anything to see for a while.”

Emori sits at the comment, but still has her body angled towards the cages. 

“So what? Now we wait?” 

Emori nods in confirmation, and Murphy’s head falls back on the tree with a thunk that hurts more than he’d ever admit. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Emori says, mostly teasing but with a heavy enough note of sincerity for him to be warned off the notion. 

“Can you think of a better way to spend the time?” He asks, uncaring of the suggestiveness that comes with it. 

“We have to pay attention, John,” she says, but not sounding truly annoyed. She even moves to sit next to him. 

“Okay,” he says, and tucks his arm around her shoulders. His fingers drum a rhythm against her upper arm and he can’t help but wish there were distractions more entertaining than the caw of a bird overhead. “Tell me a story instead.” 

“We need to be quiet, John.” 

“It’s not quiet out,” he protests, referring to the wind in the trees, the creaks and groans that seem to sneak their way out of the forest floor. That bird. “We’ll just be part of nature.” 

Emori contemplates it for a few seconds, but her lips tremble in the corners with the effort of stopping herself from smiling, so he knows she’ll cave. 

“What kind of story?” 

“I don’t know, one of your terrible ghost stories?” 

Emori thinks it over for a bit, eyes closed in concentration. Maybe the mood isn’t right for ghost stories. There’s no fire or smoke, the lines of sunlight cutting through the trees are too bright. But Emori leans into him, and when she speaks her voice is low and airy. 

“Not so long ago,” she starts. Murphy doesn’t know why, but he likes that kind of beginning. “There was a spirit, unburned and unburied. It’s body had died of exposure, heat or cold, maybe loneliness. It couldn’t remember.” 

Emori has her eyes remain shut, her shoulders pressing forward in front of her chest, almost a defensive stance. 

“It wandered, in the way spirits do, looking for a place to rest. But it couldn’t find anywhere steady to drift away, always tripping over roots and rocks. There was no place on the ground it could settle. It continued on like that for years, watching as a drought overtook the forest of its death. Slowly green gave way to brown and rot. The woods became a desert and the spirit came to know it would never rest. 

“One day, as if by premonition, a lone vulture circled overhead. The spirit stilled, and waited for the vulture to dive. It was dead after all, and maybe there was some part left in its soul that the vulture could find nourishment in. But when the vulture flew down it was not with a gnashing beak. Instead it folded its wings and evaluated the spirit with its one seeing eye, the other, by birth or accident or the cruelty of others, was missing from its socket. 

“‘Are you lost?’ the vulture asked the spirit almost with hope, and the spirit noticed for the first time that the vulture had no flock with it. ‘Yes,’ the spirit said, ‘But I don’t know from where.’ 

“‘If you like you could ride on my wings and look from above. And then I might have company too.’ The spirit considered the offer only briefly before accepting, from the back of the vulture it could see further than it had ever traversed, and maybe it would be able to find the place it was meant to be.

“The pair passed over rivers and lakes, forests and plains. None of them promised comfort to the spirit, but it detailed the colors below to the vulture anyway. The vulture could see it all too, but it liked hearing a sound other than the rush of wind in its ears. It was not used to companionship.” 

Emori pauses for a moment, as if she lost her place. A number of things he might say rise in his mind, either questioning or humorous, but Emori seems to remember herself before he can figure out which route to take. 

“As those days in the sky continued, the spirit noticed the sleek softness of the vulture’s feathers, and steadiness of it’s flight even in storms or uneven currents. The crookedness of its call and chattering talk became melodic, and the spirit rediscovered sleep. It found solace in the vulture’s wings.” 

Emori’s hands are braced on her knees, and he can see the pressure she’s forcing against her knees. She’s not looking at him either, and he’s not sure why. His fingers are still stuttering out a beat against her arm. He wants her to look at him. 

“You’re still really bad at this whole ghost story thing,” Murphy says, a huff of laughter, afraid that if he doesn’t shatter the silence the string tied around his heart might tug something irrevocable out of him. 

“What, you didn’t like it?”

“No,” he’s quick to say, “No, I did.” Emori looks up at him finally, kisses his cheek. There’s something important about the story to Emori, something about death and flight that he can’t pin down. He was always bad at English. “Where did you hear it?” 

“I made it myself,” Emori says. She’s slowly beginning to uncurl herself, her shoulders falling to a normal angle, but she still picks at the frayed end of her sleeve. “The one-eyed vulture, it’s—” She shakes her head. “It felt like it needed a good ending.”

For a second he’s confused, like there’s a taste in his mouth that he recognizes but can’t name. Whatever it is he thinks Emori feels it too. He doesn’t mind, so long as it’s mutual. 

“Most stories don’t have good endings,” he says, the only comfort he can think to give. To himself or her he doesn’t know. “Life doesn’t either.” 

“Yeah,” Emori mutters. Bitter agreement. “It’s just a love story.” 

He hadn’t thought about it like that. But it is sort of romantic, in the wild, restless way. 

He blinks, to clear the dust and weight from his thoughts, considering different ways of making fun of her twisted romanticism when there’s a clatter to their left, and an animal’s twitter. They’ve caught something. 

Emori is on her feet with a jolt, knife in hand from seemingly nowhere. He’s slower to react, still recovering from the story he wanted her to tell him. By the time he’s caught up the squirrel is already dead. 

“It’s a fat one,” Emori remarks, pleased. He watches as she dismembers it with clean strokes, the pelt removed soon after. “We can roast that for dinner, it’ll be a proper meal.” 

“Sounds good.”

“But we have things to do first,” she says. He shrugs out of his jacket and shirt at her expectant glance, finding that it’s not as cold as he suspected earlier. Especially not when Emori smears blood to the side of his face, over his thrumming jugular. The smell of it is sharper today for some reason, fresher than blood has smelled since Harrison was splattered on his face. It’s that thought that finally makes him shiver. 

“You’re cold?” Emori pauses, a small pile of dirt cupped in her hand. 

“Nah,” he says, and nods with permission to continue. “Blood’s just not the best smell, you know?” 

Emori’s eyes flicker down, her gloved hand runs over two of the larger scars on his side. “Thought you’d be used to it by now.” At that he can only shrug. 

Emori sighs and mixes some dirt into his new injury. It makes the tang of the blood more numb. She smears the remainder of what’s in her hand across his side, and despite the hard edges of the morning’s frost still caught in the silt, it feels comfortable. 

“All set?” He asks, and Emori takes a step back to look him over before offering a definitive nod. 

“Just need to find a good spot on the road.” 

It’s not difficult to find somewhere secure, the terrain in these parts is a bit more ragged and so the road is less predictable, giving plenty of options for places where he can collapse and Emori can hide away. 

“I think here’s good,” Emori says when they reach a place where the road bends. She’s already hiding the pack away, knife out. 

“Hopefully it’s quick.” 

“The sooner you get out there, the sooner it’s over and we can leave,” Emori points out. With the tip of her knife. He only manages to take one step away before Emori snags his wrist. 

She kisses him longer than she needs to, but not long enough. Almost teasing, with the hint of her tongue pressed against his lower lip. Like she wants him to think about it when he’s lying on the forest floor. 

“Okay, now you can go,” she says, the flash in her eyes, telling him she knows exactly what she’s doing. It takes her nudging her shoulder against his before he’s moving. 

He doesn’t mean to look over his shoulder at her, but he does anyway. Emori must have known he would somehow, because he can still see her face, poking out from behind a tree, cast half in shadow, half in light. 

He arranges himself on the ground after she gives him a directive point, but it’s several minutes before he can settle his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and roll Hakeldama.
> 
> Ah, it's the end guys!! Thanks so much for reading/reviewing/liking this story, it means so much that people have kept up with it over the last sixish months especially when this is the most ambitious fanfic project i've ever done! This fic is like, my baby, so i'd love to hear your thoughts on it as a whole, feel free to leave a comment or hmu on [tumblr.](https://stupidspaceseven.tumblr.com) Thanks again, love you all!!

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when they were happily together in canon? Me neither because we didn't get to see most of it, so I'm fixing that problem.  
> This first chapter is short because Emori needed to rest, but please look forward to longer chapters soon!


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